


Through the Looking Glass

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 616!Foggy thinks he's straight, Age Difference, Arguing, Bisexual Foggy Nelson, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Dimension Travel, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Netflix!Matt thinks he's straight, Post-Season/Series 03, sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-31 10:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17847959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: Foggy Nelson is in love with Matt Murdock, but he knows it's not going anywhere -- Matt's straight. And that's fine! But when another Matt and Foggy pop into the middle of Foggy's apartment one night, well, things change.This older, redheaded Matt turns out to be... A lot more receptive. Apparently, he's in love with his own Foggy, and it's not going anywhere for him either.(aka: the one where 616!Matt and Netflix!Foggy already know they're bi and in love with their best friend, and 616!Foggy and Netflix!Matt figure it out along the way)





	1. Fresh, Hot Doppelgangers Delivered Right To Your Door

**Author's Note:**

> For the DD Bingo Prompt: "Age Difference"
> 
> I warn you all... I'm still kind of a comics newbie so while I've been reading through Waid's run as fast as I can get my hands on it and I've been able to see some of the Mike Murdock arc in Soule's run, there might be some details wrong here. That said, at this point I literally do not care anymore if it's 100% accurate. My canon now, Marvel!!

“This… Isn’t K’un Lun.”

“ _Wow_ , did your superpowers tell you that?”

Foggy stares at the two men currently standing in his apartment. They seem human enough, but then they also emerged from a swirling gold portal directly into the middle of his living room. Foggy looks down at the beer in his hand and squints suspiciously. After a few seconds of fruitless scrutiny, he chances a glance up at the oddly familiar strangers, who are, hey, still there and not just a brief hallucination brought on by stress and/or insomnia. Very cautiously, Foggy sets his beer bottle on the coffee table. He’s pretty sure Javier down at the bodega wouldn’t give him hooch that was laced with anything hallucinogenic, but in this era of aliens and radioactive bullshit, god knows what’s infecting the water. Or the breweries. Whatever.

Now with only his uninvited guests to draw his attention, Foggy begins to study them in earnest. The one on the left has brilliant, fiery red hair, a slight pout on his face, and a sunglasses-and-white-cane combo that instantly clues Foggy in that he’s blind. The guy on the right has sandy brown hair, a ridiculously colorful but very snappy three-piece suit, and a done-with-you expression that’s so intimately familiar that Foggy gets goosebumps just looking at it. The two are still bickering, but Foggy can’t hear a word they’re saying over the ringing in his ears.

He thinks he can pretty safely say that it’s not actually him and Matt from the future – or at least their own future – because Matt has never been ginger and the smell of hair dye would probably make him hurl. That said, it’s extremely clear that the probably-mid-forties mega-hot blind redhead and his distinguished-looking counterpart with the purple waistcoat have to be some bizarre version of himself and Matt.

Especially when Ginger Matt does that little head tilt Matt always does when he’s listening for something and turns immediately towards Foggy. Because the thing is, Foggy’s heart is pounding loud enough that someone with Matt’s ears could hear it from New Jersey, but he hasn’t actually said anything and he’s barely managed a breath, so a regular blind guy shouldn’t have noticed him at all.

“Oh,” Foggy’s older doppelganger says. “Um.”

Ginger Matt proceeds to flash a heart-stopping Murdock brand flirty smile.

“Hi there,” he all but purrs, and he might not be rocking artful stubble like the Matt that Foggy knows but there is no mistaking that perfect jawline. “I don’t suppose you could tell us where we are? We’re a little lost.”

“Yeah, I bet,” replies Foggy before he can rein his mouth in. “I mean. Uh.”

“Ignore him, please,” Other Foggy grumbles, elbowing Ginger Matt and rolling his eyes. “He’s a menace. I’m Foggy Nelson, this is my partner Matt—”

“No, yeah, I got that,” squeaks Foggy because there’s _thinking_ you’re looking at hot alternate universe middle-aged versions of yourself and your best friend and then there’s actually having it confirmed.

Also his brain is stupidly chugging over the word partner and wondering if it means law partner or something more.

“Er…”

Other Foggy doesn’t seem to know how to respond.

“You’re familiar with us?” asks Ginger Matt pleasantly, but Foggy can see he’s gearing up for a fight or flight response by the slight tension to his shoulders – same Matt posture, even if the packaging is different.

“I am you,” Foggy blurts out. “Actually, I’m him. Um. I mean. Shit, I’m totally messing this up. I’m Foggy Nelson.”

There’s a long, awkward pause.

“… Sorry, _what_?” Ginger Matt demands.

“ _This_ is what weirds you out?” wonders Other Foggy. “Matt, your imaginary twin brother came to life like yesterday.”

“What,” says Foggy.

“It’s a long story,” Ginger Matt answers, hunching his shoulders a bit in a classic Embarrassed Matt pose.

 _Yeah_ , Foggy thinks hysterically, _it would kind of have to be_.

“His name is Mike and he’s an asshole,” says Other Foggy, not pulling a single punch.

Ginger Matt pouts again. It might actually, if that’s even possible, be even more unfairly compelling than any of the Matt Pouts that Foggy’s seen on his own Matt’s face. Other Foggy weathers the look like a champion, just giving Ginger Matt a sarcastic but somehow still affectionate pat on the shoulder. Foggy hopes he’ll have that level of cool someday.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Other Foggy continues, “after everything I think you owe me one weird experience, Matt. One alternate universe doppelganger, or whatever he is, because I dealt with all your… _Stuff_. It’s been over twenty years and I have dealt with _so much crazy stuff_.”

Ginger Matt curls in on himself a little.

“I know. I’m sorry, Foggy.”

And although he was strong to the pout, it looks like Other Foggy is just as susceptible to Matt Murdock’s guilty faces as Foggy is. He sighs, shakes Ginger Matt’s shoulder lightly, and brightens his tone.

“Never said I hated it,” he soothes. “Though I definitely do sometimes. But come on, Matt, what would I do without you? Crazy superhero life and all.”

“Yeah?”

There’s an unusual level of smugness hidden in the corners of Ginger Matt’s otherwise hopeful little smile. It kind of weirds Foggy out, but he supposes it’s probably normal there would be differences besides hair color in this other Matt. Still, Foggy knows that lingering on this situation or thinking too hard about what the other differences might be between this older Matt and Foggy compared to himself and Matt is just gonna drive him nuts. Not least because there’s a different sort of tension to their dynamic that Foggy doesn’t want to examine – mostly since he’s beginning to think that he’s got way more Pathetic Bi Feelings About Matt Murdock than his counterpart does. And that’s not a fun thought.

Instead, he claps his hands loudly.

“So, I heard something about K’un Lun?” he asks. “What exactly were you guys doing that you ended up here, anyway?”

The other two turn their faces towards each other, then away.

“Some… Stuff went down,” Ginger Matt admits, fiddling with his cane. “And, well… We were sort of in a rocky spot. So Danny suggested a little vacation.”

“Basically, Danny Rand is nosy and he’d make a terrible marriage counselor,” explains Other Foggy.

“You’re _married_?”

Which… Isn’t, probably, the most tactful way Foggy could have gone about asking that, but he can’t help himself. He’s not sure if he’s going to wallow in jealousy or experience a sudden and unfounded surge of hope if the answer is yes, because both options are equally likely. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a chance to find out which one will prevail, because Ginger Matt is already shaking his head.

“No, we’re not… We aren’t married. Or anything else like that.”

“We’re friends,” says Other Foggy. “Best friends.”

The way Matt’s face lights up at those words makes Foggy wonder just how rough the so-called rocky spot between them has been. It… It kind of reminds Foggy of the look Matt got when Foggy guided him again for the first time after the Daredevil reveal. And that was a pretty freaking rocky spot.

“Ok, yeah, that makes sense. That’s… My Matt and I are too.”

The two doubles smile fondly. Foggy thinks maybe they’re reminiscing. But then Other Foggy shakes his head.

“Wait. Wait a minute. You do know Danny Rand, right? Maybe we can get help from the one here to get home.”

Probably… Not, in all honesty. Foggy offers a noncommittal shrug.

“Yeah, I know Danny,” he admits. “Not well, mind you, but— Well enough that I can tell you that if you’re looking for mystical competence you’re going to be seriously disappointed. Like no offense to Danny, he’s a great guy, but he’s kind of a greenhorn to all this Iron Fist stuff. Because, like, the Chaste kind of got murdered here…? Like. All of them. And K’un Lun vanished into the ether or something, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Colleen about that.”

They both seem disheartened at the news, even if Other Foggy makes an encouraging comment about their own Danny Rand finding them in no time. _Foggy’s_ faith in the guy is pretty low considering how much he’s fucked up so far – accidentally dumping your friends in an alternate dimension is _not_ a confidence-builder – so he offers to let Other Foggy and Ginger Matt crash at his place for the time being.

“I only have the bed and the couch so we’ll need to figure out how to juggle three people onto two pieces of furniture, but otherwise you’re welcome to stay,” he tells them. “I can get the extra sheets from the hall cl—”

Which is the moment that Daredevil, clad in his classic black pjs, slams through the open window to get between Foggy and the doppelgangers.

“Holy shit,” breathes Other Foggy. “Matt, it’s—”

“Yeah.” Ginger Matt’s hackles are up instantly. “Yeah, I can tell.”

And then he smiles – something sharp and violent and eager that Foggy thinks belongs on Daredevil’s face. With a snap, Ginger Matt’s cane splits into a couple of clubs like the ones currently clutched in regular Matt’s gloved fists.

“Whoa! Hey! No!” Foggy shouts, waving his arms. “This is my apartment, you guys, I _live_ here! And I like my furniture unbroken and my walls un-punched!”

“Foggy!” Mat snaps at him in his not-fooling-anyone Batman voice, as if Foggy’s the one making stupid decisions.

“ _Come on_! They’re literally us! I know your self-hatred is legendary, but can we please not devolve into violence at the first sign of freaky doubles?”

“We don’t know who or what they really are,” retorts Matt. “I don’t— You can’t trust them.”

Foggy looks around for some sane, sensible help from their older, hopefully more mature counterparts, but Ginger Matt still seems to be raring for a fight and Other Foggy has his hands shoved in his pockets, apparently content to wait it out.

“Will you at least let me move the coffee table?” Foggy pleads at last. “I like this one, and Daredeviling and coffee tables don’t mix well if your apartment is anything to go by. Also I don’t want my beer to spill.”

“Could you please take this seriously?” Matt growls back.

He’s still using his low, gruff Daredevil voice and even though Foggy _knows_ how ridiculous it is – it is _literally just Matt_ trying to sound scary using the same tactic underage teens use to try and convince liquor store owners that they’re old enough to buy beer – he still flashes hot for a second at the sound of it.

“I’ll wait,” offers Ginger Matt pleasantly.

And— look, it’s Foggy’s apartment, he doesn’t need anybody’s go-ahead anyway. So he snags his beer in one hand (less suspect now that he knows Matt can sense their doppelgangers too) and hefts the coffee table onto the other shoulder to cart it into the kitchen. It earns him a low, impressed whistle from Other Foggy, which is— weird, but also kind of cool? Foggy thinks he probably shouldn’t feel the urge to preen for an alternate dimension version of himself, no matter how good that alternate Foggy looks. Two Matts is confusing enough for Foggy’s libido, thank you very much.

“Ok,” he says with a put-upon sigh once the coffee table is safely ensconced in the kitchen. “Go for it, if you really feel you must.”

Before he’s even finished the sentence, Matt has leapt at his older counterpart. Ginger Matt blocks a punch, very clearly maneuvering Matt away from Other Foggy. The two of them range across the living room, but that pattern holds true; each Matt makes sure to keep himself in front of his own Foggy. It would be kind of heartwarming if Foggy wasn’t about to pull out his hair worrying that they’d seriously hurt themselves.

After more flippy martial arts maneuvers than should be possible in such close quarters, Ginger Matt – a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone – manages to catch Foggy’s Matt in a headlock. He also starts humming Brahms’ Lullaby, which is honestly just uncalled for.

“Ok, you had your fun, now let him go,” Foggy says in what he considers a very reasonable tone.

But at the sound of his voice, Matt’s struggles renew.

“Can’t,” Ginger Matt huffs out as he fights to contain the flailing vigilante in his arms. “Don’t worry, though, he’ll pass out in a minute.”

He says it like that’s meant to be comforting, like Foggy should just sit back and relax and let Matt get subdued via asphyxiation.

“Ok, no, I’m not letting you choke out my best friend!”

“He’ll be perfectly fine,” insists Ginger Matt, tightening his chokehold a little.

“Hey!” Foggy shouts, storming up and snatching at Ginger Matt’s way-too-toned forearm with all his strength. “I said no! Let go of him!”

And though his tugging doesn’t budge that arm a single inch, Ginger Matt’s face softens around the mouth. He lets go of Matt, who’s only saved from collapsing onto the floor by Foggy lurching to catch him around the middle. He coughs several times, drags in long, rasping breaths, but doesn’t seem to be in danger of passing out anymore.

“You ok, buddy?” Foggy asks him quietly.

“Fine,” Matt grits out.

His voice is slightly hoarse, and Foggy shoots another glare at Ginger Matt – not that he can see it, but it makes Foggy feel better.

“I’m not going to hurt him, Matt,” says Ginger Matt in a gentle, reassuring tone, straightening his own mussed hair and clothing. “I’m not going to hurt Foggy, I would never do that. My Foggy and I are just passing through, we’re only here by accident.”

Instead of offering a scathing verbal reply like Foggy expects, Matt bares his teeth and releases a guttural snarl of rage that makes the hair on the back of Foggy’s neck stand up.

“Don’t you think you’re a little torn up to be picking useless fights right now?” asks Ginger Matt, condescending and perfectly at ease. “And given that I’d guess you only had two hours of sleep last night and nothing for supper, you really should be resting.”

Foggy’s arms tighten involuntarily around Matt. It doesn’t do anything to keep him safe, it doesn’t take back whatever cuts and bruises he’s already acquired tonight or put food in his empty stomach – it’s not a helpful gesture, but Foggy needs it for himself. The reassurance that Matt is solid and alive and breathing.

“Ok, Matt,” he murmurs when he can find his voice again, “let’s get you on the couch.”

The animal rage on Matt’s face doesn’t abate one bit, but he doesn’t struggle to continue the fight. Just lets Foggy lead him over and get him situated. Lets Foggy fuss at him uselessly and slide a pillow under his head. When Foggy finally has Matt settled comfortably on the couch, he steps back and almost runs into Other Foggy – who’s holding a plate of peanut butter sandwiches and wearing a tired, gentle smile. Foggy takes the plate with a smile of his own and passes it on to Matt.

“There, see?” he says. “They’re not such bad guys.”

“They smell wrong,” Matt insists stubbornly.

Nonetheless, he picks up a sandwich and bites into it. True, his chewing is moody and petulant, but what matters is that he’s eating at all. Foggy retreats to the doorway of the kitchen with his older double, satisfied.

Of course, with two Matts in the room, the peace only lasts another five seconds.

“You’re no bouquet of roses yourself, pal,” mutters Ginger Matt.

One comment and the two of them devolve into childish sniping at each other. Foggy wonders if it’s because they’re too alike or if it’s just because Matt is a contrary, antisocial duck.

“Really?” he says when the arguing hasn’t abated after several minutes, and it looks like his double agrees by the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “And can you please take off that mask, Matt? I can _not_ take you seriously.”

For about ten seconds, Matt’s lips are pressed together in his typical stubborn ‘Foggy is right but I don’t want to admit it’ expression. But in the end he does slide the black cloth up off his face and toss it aside – revealing sweaty, ruffled hair and a very grumpy tilt to his eyebrows. Other Foggy’s breath catches. Which, like. Same. Foggy gets that. So much.

“Oh my god,” Other Foggy murmurs. “He looks so _young_. I mean— You do too, but…”

Foggy grins and shakes his head.

“Nah. I know what you mean. The fluffy bedhead and the big brown eyes really shock you after only seeing his scruff. Matty’s got kind of a baby face like that.”

“I can hear you!” Matt calls petulantly from the couch.

“Can’t fight the truth, buddy!” retorts Foggy.

Idly reconnecting his clubs back into a cane, Ginger Matt tilts his head.

“How old _are_ the two of you anyway?” he asks.

“Thirty… Four?” muses Foggy. “Yeah. Theo just turned thirty-two, so. Thirty-four.”

There’s a pause.

“Who’s Theo?”

The weirdest part is that the question comes from Other Foggy.

“Uh. My… Brother?” Foggy says.

“No sister?”

“No, well.” Foggy shrugs. “I do also have a sister. Her name is—”

“Candace,” Other Foggy says certainly, at the same time Foggy finishes with,

“Eleanor.”

They stare at each other oddly for a moment.

“They named you after the Roosevelts?” Other Foggy musters at last.

On the couch, Matt is pressing his grinning face into his own shoulder, practically shaking with mirth. _Asshole_ , Foggy thinks fondly.

“It’s…” He sighs. “It’s a long story.”

Foggy and his older double spend the next ten minutes comparing personal facts, and find that while many match, several are wildly different. The doppelgangers are both forty-four years old, but even ten extra years doesn’t quite explain some of the alterations to their life stories.

“That’s it, I’m going to Google for answers,” Other Foggy insists. “Obviously there’s a lot more difference to this universe than just hair colors.”

Both Matts wrinkle their noses in identical confusion and chorus,

“Hair colors?”

They do the same little eyebrow scrunch too. It’s kind of unfairly cute.

“Your doppelganger is a bona fide carrot top, buddy,” Foggy tells his Matt. “It sounds silly but it totally works on him.”

The way Ginger Matt preens at those words is stupid and amusing in equal measure. _So vain_ , Foggy thinks to himself. But then, he’s Matt. And nobody knows how to throw their pretty around and then soak up all the resulting compliments quite like Matt Murdock.

“So he’s, what, blond?” Ginger Matt thinks to ask, gesturing lazily at Matt when he’s apparently done feeling satisfied with himself.

“Brunet,” corrects Other Foggy, pulling a phone out of his pocket and tapping away at the screen. “It’s not a bad look either. Incidentally, our difference isn’t nearly as startling but my young, ah, compatriot here is definitely more blond, rather than brown-haired like myself.” He waves a hand at one of the armchairs near the couch. “Can I…?”

Foggy nods.

“Yeah, go ahead. What’s yours is mine. If you can’t count on your own alternate universe self…” he jokes.

Other Foggy offers a smile and then his attention is right back on his screen.

“I’m honestly amazed my phone still works here,” he mutters as he settles into the chair. “Ok, let’s see…”

* * *

“I should’ve known something would go wrong. I need to be tracking down Mike, I never should have agreed to this,” Ginger Matt grumbles ten minutes later, pacing the apartment like a caged tiger; when that garners no response from Other Foggy – and Ginger Matt’s clearly waiting for one by the way his stride pauses and his face turns towards him – he adds vehemently, “I’m gonna kill Danny when we get back home.”

“Uh huh,” Other Foggy replies with a tone of absent fondness as he continues reading. “Of course you are, Matty. Wow, you guys have really been having a terrible decade over here. An alien invasion?”

“I know, right!” Foggy complains. “And then the robots and the whole Fisk thing and the ninjas! It’s getting completely out of hand!”

Other Foggy snorts. He looks thoroughly unimpressed, which Foggy does not get at all because. Hello! Ninjas!

“You want out of hand? Matt has a recurring nemesis named Stilt Man. And yes, he is just as stupid as he sounds.”

“He is not my nemesis,” Ginger Matt complains, sounding and looking very hard done by indeed.

But Foggy is too horrified to really enjoy it. He’s trying to digest the cartoonish level of superhero/supervillain buffoonery his double must put up with on a regular basis and it’s just not working.

“Stilt Man?” he demands. “Freaking— _Stilt_ Man, really? Matt! Put this on the record, if our universe gets a Stilt Man, I am going on strike!”

Matt’s mouth is upturned in a fond little grin that halts Foggy’s righteous indignation cold.

“Duly noted, Fog.”

* * *

In the end, they have to come back around to sleeping arrangements, because it doesn’t look like Danny Rand is going to come through for his wayward Matt and Foggy anytime soon. Unfortunately, everyone involved in the conversation is needlessly stubborn about their opinion on the matter – Foggy himself included.

Matt wants to house both doppelgangers at his place, in order to keep an ear on them and keep them away from Foggy – and he’s so incensed about it that he manages to sit up to argue. Foggy is too much of a good host not to offer up his bed to either or both of his surprise guests. Ginger Matt is insistent that he needs a bed the least of any of them – Matt being injured (which is reasonable, at least), and the two Foggies being ‘delicate’ or some silly bullshit like that. Other Foggy says it would be easier for everyone if he and his Matt found a cheap hotel to stay in.

The four of them go around and around in circles trying to find a compromise and get essentially nowhere. It reminds Foggy of those word problems where you have to set out a seating chart for a group of people, but A doesn’t want to sit next to C or E, and B wants to sit on the right of somebody wearing red.

“Well, we could always camp out here on the floor, all four of us, like it’s a sleepover,” he offers finally, aggravated, “but I don’t think waking up to a rendition of The Princess and the Pea starring two grumbly vigilantes would be at all fun.”

It’s Other Foggy who finally muscles through and comes up with a solution that’s acceptable to everyone, if not completely ideal. He’ll stay with Foggy, and Matt will take his own double back to his place. Personally, given that the Matts haven’t stopped picking at each other since meeting, Foggy isn’t super convinced it’s a great idea, but. Whatever. It satisfies both Matts’ rampant paranoia, and it means no one with working eyes has to be subjected to Matt’s neon billboard. Win-win.

“Foggy?”

“Yeah?” both Foggy and his double reply, and then startle in unison as if they haven’t all spent the last hour acclimating to the fact that there are two of them.

“No, not—” Matt, Foggy’s familiar brown-haired Matt, sighs. “My Foggy.”

“That’s gonna get old fast,” notes Foggy as he tries to tamp down on the tingly feeling the words ‘my Foggy’ have prompted before either Matt can supersense it somehow. “There’s gotta be a better way to do this.”

“Well,” Other Foggy sighs, his hands on his hips. “We are technically your elders, so I guess we should be setting a good example. I think I can handle being called Franklin a few times for the sake of all our brains.”

Foggy shudders at the thought.

“You’re a true hero, man,” he says.

“Oh, are we finally acting our age?” teases Ginger Matt.

“Given the givens, would you really rather try having them call you Mike? I think it’d be weird for everyone.”

“Matthew it is,” Ginger Matt agrees with a grimace.

Foggy’s really going to have to ask more about this Mike Murdock business. And also how imaginary twin brothers can suddenly become real. It sounds like Franklin and Matthew’s universe is a level of bizarre that Foggy’s world can’t even hope to achieve – for which he’s grateful – but who knows? Better safe than sorry, and if he can get a decade’s jump on any potential craziness he might as well.

Speaking of getting a jump on things…

“Shouldn’t we tell somebody about this? The Avengers, or—”

He knows the answer is no even before anybody speaks, just by the way Matt and Matthew cringe at the thought. Their twin expressions of horror mean Foggy has to press his lips tightly together to avoid laughing and probably sending them both into pouting fits.

“We can’t tell anyone,” decides Matt, which is basically just his rote response to literally everything.

That said, it’s not just the two of them anymore. The sign on the office door might be a file folder again, but this time it definitely says Nelson, Murdock, _and_ Page.

“We at least have to tell Karen,” Foggy insists, pinning Matt with a glare so stern he has to feel it even when he can’t see it.

“Karen?” asks Matthew, and his face pales dramatically. “Karen Page?”

And all Foggy can think is _oh, fuck_ , because he’s not sure he wants to know what happened to Karen in the other universe if her name elicits a response like that.

“She’s alive…?” Franklin questions them weakly. “Karen’s— alive?”

“I’m guessing that means yours isn’t,” says Foggy, because someone has to.

His stomach turns at the thought, though. Of losing Karen. Of all the ways they almost _have_ lost Karen.

“She’s been.” Matthew swallows, and they all know he means ‘dead’ even if he can’t bring himself to say it. “A long time.”

A little shaky on his legs, Matt stands, steadying himself on the couch. But after a second to acclimate to being upright again, he takes one step. Then another, and another, until he can capture one of Matthew’s hands in his own.

“I’m. I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Matthew’s jaw goes tight, but that doesn’t hide the tears that slip down his face. Matt lets him go, and Matthew tugs off his sunglasses with one hand, scrubbing at his eyes with the other. They’re blue, Foggy notices. Bright, ice blue.

“I don’t know if it’s any consolation or not,” Foggy tells Matthew and Franklin, “but yes, our Karen’s alive. She’s safe.”

“And no one’s tried to kill her recently?” Matthew demands, his voice low and urgent as he slips his glasses back onto his face.

Matt turns his head towards Foggy, Foggy looks back, and they both shiver. Foggy’s not sure what part Matt’s remembering, but for himself… That red, horned mask, an evil smile, Daredevil’s club flying right at his face. It’s something he’ll never forget. That cold, quiet certainty that he was going to die.

“There was… Someone,” he manages numbly.

“He was an.” Matt shakes his head. “An FBI sharpshooter. Poindexter. Benjamin Poindexter.”

“Bullseye,” growls Matthew, his expression going dark and dangerous.

“Yeah, we know him,” Franklin agrees, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and glancing away. “He’s the one that… He killed our Karen. But, you said yours is ok?”

This time, it’s Foggy’s turn to offer a little comfort. He squeezes Franklin’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he promises. “She made it. And considering she’s got both Daredevil and Frank Castle looking out for her, I’m pretty sure she’s going to continue to be ok. That’s without even mentioning the gun she keeps in her purse.”

Foggy still has about a million conflicted feelings about literally all of that, but watching Matthew and Franklin shed their grief and gape like fish makes his day. Whatever Matt hears or senses, it has him trying to stifle breathy laughter.

“I don’t suppose the Frank Castle in your world is, say, just a really muscular baker or something,” Franklin asks hopefully.

More power to him for daring to dream that’s one of the many differences between their universes. _He must not have gotten to the Punisher case yet in his Googling_ , Foggy thinks.

“Not so much,” answers Matt.

Understated as always. Although considering the topic is Frank Castle, it’s a surprisingly diplomatic answer. Foggy, however, does not have any sense of vigilante camaraderie, and he doesn’t feel like being diplomatic.

“He’s a mass murdering psycho with lots of guns,” he adds. “We don’t know exactly what’s going on with him and Karen, but we don’t approve. Unfortunately, we also don’t have the authority over Karen to be able to effectively disapprove, either. So. It is how it is.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…” Franklin murmurs, shaking his head.

Matthew’s hands are clutched in his red hair as he paces and mouths nonsense syllables the way Matt does when he’s trying to find the right words and failing.

“Frank Castle…?” he says finally, like they’ve just told him rain falls upwards here.

“Frank Castle,” confirms Matt.

“And now that we’ve gotten completely off-topic,” Foggy says, “I’ll remind you that regardless of her questionable choice in friends—” and hopefully not anything else, although Foggy’s long given up on trusting his colleagues to make sensible decisions in their romantic lives— “we do still need to tell Karen. You two don’t have to meet with her if you don’t want to, but she deserves to know why we’re going to have to take some time off, and we all promised not to lie to each other anymore.”

It’s about fifteen seconds of undiluted Matt Guilt Face before Matt concedes and lets Foggy phone Karen.

“Is this a joke?” she asks at first, which is a fair assumption.

“Would you believe it’s actually not? Our lives are just genuinely this weird now. They’re forty-four. And Matt’s hair is bright red!”

“What the shit,” Karen mutters, so low that Foggy’s not sure she means for him to hear. “Ok, so, what’s the plan?”

“Well…” Foggy sighs. “I can’t convince anyone to get, you know, Avenger-y help with this, so. We’re just gonna sit tight until hopefully Mirror World Danny comes to get them? I think we might want to shutter the offices for now. Can you help us reschedule the meetings for Ms. Tanaka and the Ortiz family?”

There’s a long, long silence after that. Foggy cringes a little, sure he’s going to get either a verbal lashing or a too-insightful question which will force him to dance around how alive Karen’s own personal double is. Or rather, isn’t.

“Ok,” she says at last. “I’ll work it out with the Ortizes. But Ms. Tanaka’s court date is coming up, at least one of you needs to make that meeting on Wednesday. Also I’m eating the last of the berry crumble as payment.”

“What! Karen, I called dibs like two days ago—”

“Bye Foggy, see you on Wednesday!” Karen calls cheerily, and then hangs up without so much as a by-your-leave.

Foggy pulls his phone away from his ear and scowls at it.

“Rude.”

He doesn’t bother telling Matt what Karen said – he’s heard it all anyway, judging by the amused expression on his scruffy face. Before Foggy can call him out on it, a loud growling noise splits the air. And Foggy’s hungry, yeah, but not that hungry. A glance around the room shows Matthew pressing a hand to his belly.

“We didn’t have any lunch,” he explains sheepishly. “It was morning in our universe – we were supposed to eat with Danny in K’un Lun.”

Which sounds to Foggy like a perfect excuse to order some of their favorite greasy takeout. Yesterday’s lunch was shrimp lo mein with egg rolls, and Mrs. Greco promised to bake them a homemade pizza this weekend when they help her go over the legalese in her will, so…

“Chicken from Annabelle’s?” he asks Matt.

That chicken, fried and served with a side of baked beans, is probably going to give Foggy a heart attack someday, but he absolutely does not care because it’s that good. Annabelle’s is open as a quaint diner during the day, but they still have a pick-up- and delivery-only night shift for the express purpose of spiting KFC – according to Beth, the owner’s daughter.

“Sounds good, Fog,” Matt agrees, so Foggy dials and puts his phone back to his ear.

* * *

Half an hour later, the food is sitting a little sour in his stomach. Franklin’s eating like he hasn’t seen food in a week, and Matt – still understandably hungry after the peanut butter sandwiches given the amount of calories he must burn in a day – is making a reasonable dent in his own portion with his usual perfect table manners, but… Matthew, who has to be hungry, just picks at his baked beans with a disgusted expression. Finally, he seems to have had enough and pushes his plate away.

“Ugh. This is terrible, what kind of garbage are you putting into your body, Matt?”

“The kind of garbage I can afford,” Matt retorts snappishly. “Not all of us have bank accounts flush with cash.”

Foggy’s stomach swoops. How long has he known about the supersenses and he still didn’t think to consider— But of course. It’s only obvious. Matt can muscle through just about anything, and he loves to play the martyr. Of course he wouldn’t bother mentioning if the kind of food their budgets could afford was hell on his heightened sense of taste or smell.

“Shit. I’m sorry, I should’ve…”

“No,” Matt says firmly. “I agreed when you asked, didn’t I? I think I’m enough of an adult that I can make my own choices. If I didn’t want to eat Annabelle’s I wouldn’t have said yes.”

And that’s all reasonable, but… But Matt’s chronically incapable of asking for help, from anyone. When he says something, especially that he’s ok, Foggy can’t always trust that ‘ok’ isn’t code for ‘stubborn enough to push through it and pretend I’m ok when I’m really not’.

“I know, buddy, but if there’s something I can do to make things easier on you, I want to! You can tell me these things now, you know,” he says, trying hard to keep the hurt out of his voice.

This isn’t about him and his trust issues. It’s about making things better for Matt, accommodating him.

“I’m fine,” Matt insists viciously. “It’s fine.”

Which means it’s not fine at all and Matt’s been trying to hide it. Foggy had thought, perhaps foolishly, that they were finally past all that. Getting to know Matt Murdock, it seems, is a journey of endless steps. Still, tackling it head on is just winding Matt tighter, and Foggy doesn’t want that. He drops the issue.

“Don’t mind Matthew, he’s just gotten accustomed to the lifestyle in which his fame is able to keep him,” jokes Franklin, squeezing Foggy’s shoulder the way Foggy had squeezed his earlier – a comfort, a reassurance. “It’s like that children’s book, do you remember? If you give a mouse a cookie…”

“He’ll want some bougie organic soy milk to go with it?” Foggy adds, trying to keep his tone light and teasing.

“And complain that you used a quarter tablespoon too much butter in the cookie.”

“You can’t still be annoyed about that,” Matthew whines, and goes back to picking moodily at his food – even takes a few bites, so apparently Franklin’s shaming works. “And it was a whole half a tablespoon too much.”

“Of course it was, Matty,” says Franklin in probably the best falsely saccharine voice Foggy has ever heard – even better than Marci’s. “Come on, you’ve put up with my eating habits for how many years now? I think you can handle this without whining like a picky teenager.”

“I’m just saying Matt should be cooking his own food, it’ll taste better if he can control the environment it’s prepared in, and he needs more fresh produce in—”

There’s a loud thump. Foggy’s, like… Ninety-six percent sure Matt just kicked Matthew under the table, but neither one of them says a thing about it. For his part, Franklin rolls his eyes and goes back to eating. Matthew stuffs a bite of beans into his mouth, although he pulls a face reminiscent of Foggy’s niece Ruthie the first time she tried a lemon.

“So,” Foggy says awkwardly, unable to stand the silence hanging over the table, “I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to know, but… Tell me more about Stilt Man.”

“Trust me,” begins Franklin between messy bites of chicken, “you won’t even believe what he…”

* * *

For the rest of the meal, Franklin and Matthew regale them with stories of Daredevil’s various nemeses in their world. Some sound scary, some sound stupid, but what they all have in common is that regardless of threat level they sound completely batshit.

When they’re all finished eating – even Matthew, who under Franklin’s watchful eye finishes his whole plate – Matt and Matthew head out, leaving Foggy alone with his older double. Although there’s still a lot to discuss, a lot to learn, they’re both too worn out to stay up all night hashing out the differences between their universes. So, Foggy offers his bed to Franklin, and makes up the couch for himself. It’s not a bad trade, at least. He’d bought the couch for comfort, since he’s got a bad habit of staying up too late reading briefs and falling asleep that way.

As he drifts off, he wonders how Matt and Matthew are settling in together – and if they’re getting ready for bed, or if they’re preparing to patrol the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen together.


	2. How to Treat Your Foggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Matthew discover and air their complaints about one another. Breakfast is made. Matt is frustratingly oblivious to his own feelings. Franklin tries to ease Matt's mind.

Matt, mask back on, leads his double home from the rooftops. It’s not something he could do with anyone else, but Matthew… _Is_ him, apparently, so he can hear Matt’s murmured directions from down on the street where he’s tapping his way along the sidewalk with his cane.

His cane that turns into a set of billy clubs which seems to include a grappling line – based on the sound of the machinery inside it. Melvin would have a field day with a contraption like that.

Matt’s shoulders droop at the thought.

Melvin.

Though he’d tried to justify leaving Melvin behind to get arrested – to himself, to Betsy, to God – he regrets it now more than anything. What made Melvin less worthy of saving than Ray, or Theo, or anybody else who’d gotten tangled up in Fisk’s web? The truth is, Matt had just been terrified, and he’d run away. He needs to find a way to fix things with Melvin. To help him.

It’s that thought in Matt’s head when he lands on his own roof.

“Apartment 6A,” he says quietly, opening the roof access door for himself. “I’ll buzz you i—”

There’s a _swish-clack-zip_ , and then Matthew’s swinging up onto the roof at his side.

“This seemed faster,” he says, sounding annoyingly proud of himself.

It’s irritating enough to take Matt’s mind off his own guilt and bring it back to his counterpart’s appalling behavior at Foggy’s.

“We need to talk,” he grits out, stomping down his roof access stairs.

“You’re upset,” notes Matthew as he follows Matt into the apartment.

“You _think_? What the hell was that about the food?”

“What?”

Matthew sounds totally baffled, but his confusion doesn’t stop him from doing a slow loop of the apartment. From trailing his fingertips over Matt’s walls and shelves.

“You were completely out of line,” Matt presses on, moving to the center of the room and refusing to follow in his doppelganger’s wake like an anxious puppy.

“I just said what we were both thinking,” retorts Matthew carelessly. “All of that grease? The exhaust smell from the delivery bike? I don’t know how you could stand it.”

“You went and— Do you have any idea what a delicate balance this is?” Matt demands, because it seems like Matthew is completely clueless. “I’m still trying to mitigate damage, here. Still trying to get Foggy to stop second-guessing every little thing he does. To stop worrying that he’s— that he’s offending my senses just by living his life. And you had to go and throw gasoline on the fire – for what? Because you’re not man enough to handle cheap takeout? Go screw yourself!”

There’s a low, condescending scoff that rankles particularly because it reminds Matt of Stick. Then, a swish of air allows Matt to dodge out of the way of a light swat to the shin with Matthew’s cane.

“You’re adults, you know,” Matthew says, amused. “Suffering through Foggy’s poor taste in food is a little too much martyrdom even for me. And he can handle a little criticism. I mean, don’t tell me you actually _like_ that stuff?”

Which is just an unnecessarily theatrical stance to take. Usually Matt doesn’t think Foggy has a leg to stand on when he calls him melodramatic, but this? It’s way too much horror over regular takeout food.

“Yeah, well— maybe I do,” he retorts, tugging the mask off his face and tossing it aside. “I’ve kind of built up a tolerance to cheap food. You can’t afford to be picky in an orphanage, or did you forget?”

Matthew’s heart begins to race, although he keeps his breathing very slow and calm. A sudden chill hits Matt.

“Orphanage?”

The sheer confusion in Matthew’s voice only solidifies the leaden feeling in Matt’s gut.

“After,” he says numbly. “After Dad died.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. An orphanage? We were adults—”

“I was _nine_!”

There’s a long, disquieting stretch of silence, the rushing of blood in Matt’s ears blocking out everything except his heartbeat and Matthew’s, beating wildly but in tandem. Finally, Matthew sinks onto the couch with a soft thump.

“Oh, god,” he chokes out, voice muffled – hands pressed to his mouth. “Nine?”

“I. Yes. Nine. When were— For you, when did…?”

“Nineteen.”

Ten years. That’s… That’s ten years. Ten extra years with Dad. Ten years of big, rough hands around his own. Ten years of hair-ruffling. Ten years of having Dad as a safe point, of being able to use him as a sensory anchor, ten years of parental love and affection, ten years growing up without having to feel like Dad’s death was his fault. Ten more years of memories.

The loss of Jack Murdock has never really gone away – it’s not something you just get over, the murder of your parent – but this brings it into a new, shattering focus. The pain aches in Matt’s chest like it’s brand new again. Hollows him out until his legs buckle and he drops onto the couch next to Matthew.

“You’ve had a tough go of it,” Matthew says, soft but without the kind of pity that they both know stings more than it heals. “I can’t imagine losing Dad that early.”

“No. You can’t.”

And it’s… Rude, maybe even cruel. But… To have an extra ten years with his dad? To be able to introduce him to Foggy? Knowing that Matthew got that and he didn’t is agonizing. It’s just random chance, Matt knows rationally. Just one more difference between their universes, like the red hair, like Karen and Frank. But the small, vulnerable part of his heart that’s still nine years old and misses his Dad more than anything wants to know why Matthew deserved all that extra time more than he did.

“I was nine,” Matt repeats, trembling. “I was nine and there was no one to take me. M—” He chokes on her name. “Maggie didn’t step forward. Dad was gone, and there was no one. I couldn’t cope, I couldn’t— The whole world was screaming at me, all the time. And then Stick showed up.”

“Oh Jesus,” breathes Matthew, and even though it all hurts there’s something bright and sparkling about having someone who knows, without Matt having to explain – knows all the intricacies, all the effects, understands how much more vulnerable Matt was to Stick without Dad in the picture to look after him.

Matthew seems to know, also, not to reach out physically. Not to touch. Which is… It’s good. And he’s starting to get, maybe, where Foggy was coming from by insisting they can trust these doppelgangers. Things are different, circumstances are different, but Matthew gets it in a way nobody but Matt himself ever could. It aches to talk, but not in the same way it would to open up to another person. The wounds hurt for themselves but baring them to Matthew is like baring them to himself. It doesn’t feel as shameful. That, maybe, is what allows him to keep going. Matthew doesn’t ask him to stop.

“He was my only support back then. The, the only one I trusted. I thought… I thought we were, that he could be… But Stick didn’t want a son, he wanted a soldier,” Matt explains hoarsely. “He left. He left me and didn’t look back, and for weeks, months, I kept… I thought if I just tried harder, if I just closed myself off, if I… That maybe he. That maybe he’d come back for me.”

There’s a thick, wet noise as Matthew swallows. Matt can smell salt in the air, but he’s not sure which of them is crying, or if maybe they both are.

“But he didn’t,” Matthew concludes.

“And after that, I didn’t… I had nobody. I didn’t _want_ to have anybody, didn’t want to rely on someone who would leave me. I was alone. Until Foggy. And he didn’t hesitate, not one—not one second.” Matt laughs, and it’s happy even though he can feel now that there are hot, ugly tears stealing down his cheeks. “Just told me that, that he thought I was a hero, that he thought I was great, that we were going to be best friends. He just put himself out there and. And all the walls broke down.”

Only now does Matthew touch him. Slowly places a gentle hand on Matt’s head, guides him to lean over until his face is pressed into his double’s throat. It reminds Matt a little of the way Dad used to hug him, and that makes the tears come faster.

“Even that’s not how it went,” Matthew says softly. “With my Foggy and I, even though we ended up best friends like you two. Things were… A bit rockier, for us. But I’m glad it was simple for you, with everything else you went through.”

“You get it now, right?” Matt asks, swallowing hard and trying not to sniffle like a kid. “That things are different here. And Foggy’s my best friend; hurting his feelings is the last thing I want to do. If I decide to make sure it doesn’t happen by handling him with a more delicate touch than you, then that’s my choice.”

“I’m sorry,” says Matthew, and Matt knows from experience how hard it can be to get those words out – to admit you’re wrong. “You’re right. This is your world, and he’s your Foggy. I’ll be on my best behavior starting now, cross my heart.”

Two quick, soft scrapes of fabric tell Matt that he actually has, and the gesture feels sincere instead of mocking.

“Thank you.”

When Matt has his tear ducts back under control again, he sits up straight and scrubs at his face with his sleeve. He’s still feeling a little fragile and doesn’t mind the comfort of Matthew ruffling his hair.

“Do you still train at Fogwell’s, Matt?”

“Yeah,” Matt answers cautiously.

“Good. I’ve been, well, kind of an asshole. I didn’t know, about… But that’s no excuse. Let me make it up to you.”

And Matt agrees because even if he were willing to leave Matthew to his own devices, he’s a little too emotional now to try and go back out on patrol anyway. He’s learned to listen to that sort of thing. And it’s not like he’s going to fall asleep anytime soon. He’s trained his body too well for that.

So, they both change into sets of Matt’s workout clothes – Matt tries not to think about how Matthew’s shoulders seem to be a bit broader than his own by the way they stretch the fabric of the shirt – and make their way to Fogwell’s.

* * *

As soon as they’re through the door, Matthew takes a deep breath of the musty air.

“It still smells the same,” he says, startled and pleased.

Considering the differences between their worlds, that this one thing is the same is almost comforting. Whatever else changes, Fogwell’s is Fogwell’s. Matthew moves around the space with ease, takes it in, and Matt can suddenly tell that his double has just lost a little tension. That, in some small way, he’s come home. Matt gives him space, sets his duffel bag on the bench by the wall and begins wrapping his hands. After a few seconds, Matthew joins him.

“Alright, slugger,” he jokes to Matt when they’re both ready. “Get into the ring. Let’s see what you know.”

“Maybe more than you, old man.”

Matt ducks a playful cuff aimed towards the back of his head, then runs and flips over the ropes of the boxing ring. He lands, spins, and bows. Matthew’s laughter rings through the room. Then, he takes two steps back. Matt moves to the far side of the ring, and cocks his head to listen. He’s not disappointed. Matthew takes a running leap, flips twice, catches himself in a handstand on the ropes of the boxing ring, and flips again. He mimics Matt’s bow, and Matt decides the performance is worth a few claps.

“What was that about being an old man…?” Matthew wonders, leaning back against the ropes.

“If you’re expecting me to praise your youthful beauty, you’ll be out of luck. I’m afraid my eyes don’t work like they used to.”

It’s been a while since Matt has felt well enough to throw out a blind joke that blatant or bad. The spluttered cough-turned-chuckle that it startles out of Matthew is gratifying.

“That’s just fine, kiddo,” comes the breezy reply, once Matthew’s caught his breath. “I have enough other people to tell me I’m pretty.”

They warm up with some light sparring, and it’s… Fantastic. It’s utterly fantastic. Matt can’t remember ever sparring against someone he was so in sync with. Neither one of them lands a single hit and yet it’s almost more satisfying than any knock-down, drag-out fight he’s ever had. It’s like a dance.

Matt’s willing to admit that he shows off a little. Acrobatic flips, moves that require more precision. In the end, that’s what gets him. Matthew pulls a move Matt’s never encountered before and – probably not expecting it to connect – doesn’t pull any punches on the follow-through. Matt hits the ground hard and accidentally slices open his lip with his teeth. Nonetheless, excitement is buzzing under his skin at such an intense frequency that the pain doesn’t even register.

“Show me,” he demands of Matthew, grinning even as he can feel blood oozing from his split lip. “Show me how you. How you did that.”

A shift of air currents and there’s the warm heat of a hand in front of him. Matt grasps it and is hauled back up.

“Sure.”

Matthew works him through the concept patiently and lets Matt get a feel for the proper stance. It’s been a while since Matt’s learned a move in anything like a structured setting, and even Stick’s teaching was never quite like this. With Stick, it was always pain first – figure out the lesson yourself, and quickly, or risk injury. With Matthew, it’s not a test. Just a learning opportunity. It doesn’t feel like fear or struggle or work at all.

“And then you just…”

Once again, Matthew flips him like it’s nothing. Matt hits the mat with a grunt, but he springs back onto his feet immediately, can’t help the adrenaline-fueled grin on his face. Sparring with a more experienced version of himself is _fun_. It’s like… Like Matt imagines having an older brother would be. Or a mentor that wasn’t a total dick. Matthew knows exactly how much to push him, and how much would be too far. In this at least, they must be the same.

“My turn,” Matt insists, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

His double laughs.

“You got it, kiddo.”

* * *

When they’ve finally worn themselves out and settled on the bench to drink some water and towel off their sweat, Matt opens up a little. Tells Matthew about some of the things that he and Foggy have been through since Matt first started going out in the mask. For the most part, Matthew offers little comment – just listens, intently.

Except then Matt gets to the Blacksmith, to the shooting in Reyes’ office. To everything that came after. He’s just starting to describe the Hand’s attack on Metro Gen when—

“You didn’t visit Foggy in the hospital?”

Matthew’s voice is tight and ice cold.

“I was— I was on the roof,” Matt retorts defensively. “He was fine, I was there, I.”

“And did he _know_ you were there?” It’s a condemnation, not a question; they both know the answer. “Matt. He was _shot_. He almost _died_. He needed to see you. You should have been there.”

“There was a lot going on,” argues Matt. “The city needed me.”

And it’s— it’s true, he still does believe that. The city had needed Daredevil that night. But the more disapproval he can sense coming off of Matthew, the more he thinks about that night. About Claire’s urging to go visit Foggy. About overhearing Foggy asking Marci if she’d seen him, the hope and resignation battling in his voice. It had stung, at the time, but it cuts deeper now when he has another version of himself to compare to. Would Matthew have gone down to check on Foggy in person? Would things have been better that way?

“The city always needs you, Matt,” Matthew says. “But the people close to you? You need to learn when to give them precedence.”

The sad disappointment rankles almost more than anger would, and Matt finds himself bristling.

“What, and you’re so— you’re so perfect? You’ve never done anything like that, left someone you care about in the lurch because the city was more important?” he demands.

“Not for that,” Matthew says sharply. “Not to Foggy. I’ve done plenty of things I needed to apologize for, or that hurt him, but when he really needed me to be there, needed to know I was on his side? That’s where I was. When he was so pumped full of chemo that being in the room with him for a minute made me vomit, I was there.”

Matt nearly blanks out at the revelation, a sick feeling curdling in his belly. Chemo. Which means cancer. A phantom scent hits his nose – barely there, something on Franklin’s skin, something different from Foggy and Matthew both. He doesn’t know if there really is some irrevocable physical difference, some mark of what Franklin’s been through that his senses can pick up, or if his mind is simply trying to conjure one from nothing so he can more easily convince himself that his own Foggy is healthy, is ok. That that will never happen to him. Because Matt can fight mobsters and ninjas, but there's nothing he can do about cancer. No way he could ever help.

When Matt finally comes back to himself, Matthew’s broad hand is pressed to the back of his neck, holding his head down near his knees and softly coaching him to breathe. Matt’s inhales and exhales are both shaky. They hurt. But he breathes, keeps breathing, and finally comes out of it.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Matt shakes his head.

“I’m. I’m fine, I’m ok.”

There’s a wry laugh.

“I use that line often enough to know what bullshit it is, Matt.”

“Then you should know better than to call me on it,” he manages to muster the energy to retort.

Another huff of amusement. Matthew gives the back of Matt’s neck a quick, comforting squeeze, and then releases him. Lets him start to modulate himself, knows him well enough to know that Matt can handle it from here.

“No matter how poorly I made it,” Matthew says, more subdued now than upset, “my point was that I was there with him because he needed me. I… I don’t know how it is for you, but my Foggy holds me together when everything else is falling apart. He deserves to be able to expect the same from me.”

Matt, finally able to catch his breath, shakes his head. Because the words make sense, but they’re wrong. He could never have faced Foggy that night at Metro Gen anyways, even if there hadn’t been so much else to worry about, so many other people that needed protecting and not just comfort.

“It was my fault he was even in there. I didn’t push him out of the way fast enough. I didn’t stop the shooting, I—”

He’s not even sure what he means to continue with, but when he stutters to a stop Matthew’s right there with the answer.

“Didn’t deserve to visit him,” he concludes with a sigh, raking a hand through his sweaty hair. “But that’s not the point. It’s not about whether we deserve to have them as friends, Matt. The fact of the matter is that they chose us, and even if you think you haven’t earned the comfort you get from looking out for Foggy, he deserves to know he matters to you.”

“It’s not the same. You have no idea, what I haven’t been able to protect him from,” argues Matt. “The ways being around me has hurt him. We’re not, as much as I want to be, we’re not as solid as you—”

“I almost killed him once,” Matthew admits suddenly.

The thought of Foggy dead – dead at Matt’s own hands no less – sends a horrified shiver down his spine.

“You,” he manages to choke out past the fear. “You— Why? How?”

“I was. Well. I was possessed by a demon, if you can believe it. And Foggy came to me – freehanded a castle wall, actually,” Matthew explains with a disbelieving laugh, letting his head fall back against the wall. “All to try and save me. I had a hand around his throat before he broke through to me, before, just for a second, I realized who he was.” He swallows then, loudly. “Even after that, I wasn’t— Danny had to save him. Save me. And yet… Here Foggy stands. So, no, you may not think your friendship is as strong as ours, but I don’t think you could or have done anything you can’t come back from. Not with Foggy. God knows why he sticks around, but he’s a sure thing. Has been as long as I’ve known him. Sometimes he leaves, walks out, but. He’ll always, always come back. Just… Be there, Matt. Be there, and apologize for when you’re not.”

Those words end the night for them. They’re too heavy for anything else to come after. So Matt and Matthew pack themselves back up and return to Matt’s apartment. Quiet, contemplating. Though they’re supposedly the same person, Matt has no idea if his doppelganger is turning over thoughts of their differing lives the way he is.

“I can take the couch,” Matt offers quietly, and his mind is still spinning its wheels, wondering what would have happened between himself and Foggy if he’d let Foggy know, that time at the hospital, that he was watching over him.

“You need your rest,” comes the firm reply. “Take the bed.”

Matthew won’t take no for an answer, so in the end Matt climbs into his own bed and lets his counterpart take the couch. Though he has a lot to think about, to process, it’s late and he’s pleasantly worn out from sparring. More than that, the echo-beat of Matthew’s heart is as soothing as a lullaby, reminds Matt of sharing a dorm room with Foggy. He slips off into deep, dreamless sleep only minutes after his head hits the pillow.

* * *

Matt wakes to the smells of breakfast. It’s nearly finished cooking, and he has no idea how he slept through the commotion of Matthew making it. But, apparently, even while cooking his doppelganger has the extra attention span to spend monitoring his heartbeat, because he calls out a teasing,

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“If none of that is for me, I’m going to bean you with my alarm clock,” Matt rasps, fighting his way out of his silk sheets.

“Half of it is for you,” says Matthew, flipping a sizzling pancake like a pro. “But maybe it shouldn’t be if you threaten to throw things at me, you brat.”

“No take backs.”

Matthew scoffs at that, but otherwise doesn’t protest. As he finishes up the food – pancakes _and_ bacon, though Matt hadn’t known he’d had ingredients for either – Matt sets the table and gets out the butter and a bottle of maple syrup he isn’t entirely sure was in the fridge before.

When he can finally sit down and take a bite, Matt learns that the food tastes just as good as it smells.

And though he doesn’t voice it aloud, he begins to think maybe his older counterpart is onto something with his _self-cooked is better_ spiel. Not that Matt’s much of an artist in the kitchen – more of a preschool level fingerpainter to Matthew’s Van Gogh – spending his free time cooking has never really held any appeal. But maybe… Well, perhaps going forward he’ll suggest that instead of just food from their more cash-strapped clients, it might be nice if the offices of Nelson, Murdock, and Page accepted cooking lessons too. Matthew’s culinary wizardry is kind of inspiring.

It’s so good, in fact, that Matt doesn’t think to check the time until he’s done eating. When his phone tells him it’s practically ten-thirty in the morning, he’s floored. He’s not sure the last time he slept so late. Thank goodness Karen isn’t expecting him in the office. Still, it’s no excuse to wander around the apartment in just boxers, especially when it seems as though Matthew’s commandeered one of Matt’s t-shirts and a rare pair of jeans. So, Matt ambles his way back into his bedroom and throws on sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. He’s not really planning on going out at the moment – where exactly could they go that would help them with getting Matthew and Franklin back to their own universe?

He plans to wash the dishes afterwards, but Matthew is already hogging the sink to scrub them himself.

“I can do that,” Matt says, but is brushed off.

“You just have a rest. We’ll be getting some company soon.”

For several seconds, Matt isn’t sure what to make of those words. Except, then he picks up on Foggy’s presence, faint, on the edges of his perception. Matthew’s senses must be stronger than his own, he realizes, and isn’t sure what to think of that.

It’s Foggy’s heartbeat that Matt definitively hears first. He’s talking with someone— or, no, definitely with Franklin. They both smell like Foggy’s apartment and the breakfast burritos Foggy gets from the place two blocks away, but Franklin still has that slight ozone tang that marks both him and Matthew as not from this universe.

“… considered trying a bow tie?” Franklin is saying, when Matt tunes into their conversation.

“I thought about it once,” Foggy admits, and the ruffle of cloth makes Matt think he must be fiddling with his tie. “But it just seemed too, I don’t know, vaudeville. And there’d be nowhere to put my tie clip. But maybe I’ll give it a try.”

They chatter away like that for the rest of the walk, three more floors. By his quiet, huffing chuckles, Matt knows that Matthew, still drying their breakfast plates, is listening too and is just as entertained. In fact, they’re both so enamored with the good-natured wit bouncing back and forth between their respective Foggies that neither one moves to get the door. It doesn’t make much of a difference, of course, because apparently it isn’t locked – so there, perhaps, is Matt’s answer about the maple syrup; Matthew popped out to get some, and didn’t feel the need to lock up upon returning.

The door handle turns easily under Foggy’s hand, and he and Franklin step inside. Neither Matt or Matthew call out. Matt’s not sure of his double’s reasoning, but he himself is loath to pop the bubble of camaraderie between Foggy and his doppelganger. So he just listens to the clack of their shoes on the floor as they walk from the entryway into the apartment proper.

“Oh goodness, this place is, uh. A little Spartan. Does he really bring women here?” wonders Franklin.

“I don’t bother asking anymore,” Foggy says with a laugh that, despite the subject, is still bright enough that even Matt has a hard time picking out the bitterness in it. “I’m sure the silk sheets more than make up for the lack of interior design.”

Foggy does so well at keeping his feelings – at least in this case – close to his chest. And Matt appreciates that, probably more than Foggy will ever know. Holding back is a sacrifice Foggy makes every day for the sake of their friendship, just one more thing that proves how good he is – how determined and kind and in control. It’s the kind of control Matt can only admire, because he knows he’d never be able to emulate it.

After all, even with things being as they are… There are still nights, alone in bed, heart still drumming down from the adrenaline of a brawl, that Matt imagines opening that door. Imagines plucking away the cheerfulness and obfuscations and laying Foggy’s desire for him bare. Just to do it. Just because. Like leaping off a building before he’s planned a route down. For the thrill of it, to sate his curiosity.

Matt knows he can’t ever do that, of course. And it’s a shame, because he also knows that Foggy’s lips are soft. Remembers the texture of them under his fingers, from the one time Foggy let Matt touch his face. They would be— nice, to kiss, probably. If Matt wasn’t straight, he could kiss Foggy. Tell him everything was ok and bleed those faint, barely-there pinpricks of pain out of his voice once and for all. But he is, so the best he can do is to give Foggy as much dignity and privacy as he possibly can.

“It looks fine to me,” Matthew chimes in, still drying off his hands with a towel.

Once he’s done, he flings it over his shoulder with a swish as he steps towards Franklin and Foggy. It lands perfectly at the edge of the sink. Matt’s not sure whether he feels pleased that his alternate universe double is effortlessly cool or feels like he needs to step up his game and compete. With… Himself. This entire business is doing nothing for his sanity.

“That is absolutely awful, and I refuse to dignify it with a laugh. Now. Matty, feel this,” Franklin insists.

There’s a rough scrape of callused skin on fabric as Matthew rubs Franklin’s necktie between his fingers. It’s one of Foggy’s, Matt knows, although he has no way of telling without touching it which one it is.

“Are those… Foxes on your tie?”

“Isn’t it fantastic?” enthuses Franklin. “I am going to buy _so many_ of these when we get home.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t have any already,” says Foggy.

Matthew’s been missing out in that case, Matt thinks to himself. It’s always fun to feel the embroidered patterns of Foggy’s ties, to try and puzzle out their shapes. Foggy and Franklin must be getting along really well, because Matt knows that the fox tie is one of Foggy’s favorites – something he wears when he needs a little extra comfort. It’s one of Matt’s favorites too.

The thought makes Matt take a step forward, then two. He wants, suddenly, to know which tie Foggy himself is wearing.

“Hey, Matt,” Foggy says, when they’re finally face to face. “You look comfy.”

“I am,” Matt replies without an ounce of shame, then holds out a hand, palm forward. “Tie?”

“Yeah, buddy. Go for it.”

Reaching out slowly, Matt gets Foggy’s tie under his fingers and tilts his head to the side as he thinks.

“Frogs?” he guesses.

“Got it in one, pal.”

Matt’s mouth softens into a slight smile. Every time they stand a little close, or Foggy goes slightly warm with attraction – attraction to Matt – he leans hard on the friendship terms. Buddy, pal, compadre, all that. It’s a bit too hamfisted, but Matt keeps thoughts like that to himself – both because he doesn’t want to embarrass Foggy and because it warms his heart every time Foggy calls him ‘buddy’.

And then suddenly Matt’s thinking about the night before. About Foggy’s stressed response to Matthew’s complaints about the food. Matt’s taken that up with Matthew and come to a resolution, yes, but… He still needs to clear things up with Foggy. He lets Foggy’s frog-patterned tie slip from his fingers.

“About. About last night, Fog… You don’t need to…”

He sighs, frustrated, unable to string together the words he wants to say. As always, Foggy has his back.

“I know you like to be tough and pretend you never need anything, but I can give up greasy fried chicken if it’s that awful for you, Matt. Really,” Foggy sighs, sounding hopelessly fond.

But that’s not what Matt wants. He shakes his head.

“It’s not that awful,” he insists. “It’s true that sometimes my senses get… That sometimes certain meals are a little much for them, or that there are things I can taste that make it a less pleasant experience. But Foggy, that’s normal. I know you do it too – buy a cheaper alternative even though you like the expensive brand better. It’s the same with me.”

“But dialed up to twelve, Matt! It’s not…”

“It is. Really. And if it’ll make you feel better, I promise to tell you if there’s anything that really bugs me, but… Honestly. We live in New York, Fogs,” Matt points out, smiling and shaking his head. “Subway smells and hot garbage are way worse than any kind of non-rancid food could ever be.”

“Should I even ask where slightly-ripe law partners fall on that scale?”

It’s pitched like a joke, but Matt knows Foggy well enough to pick up the trace of anxiety in his heartbeat, a whiff of nervous sweat that makes his chest squeeze.

“Foggy, no. Don’t… It’s not like that, not at all.”

“It’s ok if it is, though,” Foggy says earnestly. “Really, buddy, I want… I want to make things easier for you.”

Matt shakes his head. The thought of Foggy desperately trying to cover up or wash away any hint of his natural scent is appalling. There are things Foggy has done for Matt already that make living with his heightened senses as good as it can be, and Matt appreciates them, but going farther…

“You do,” Matt says, slowly and carefully, trying desperately to find the right words. “You do make things easier for me, every day. You don’t wear strong cologne, you’re hygienic, you describe things for me, you guide me so I’m free to use my senses for other things. Foggy, you’re already doing everything you need to. Everybody— everybody takes up space, buddy. Physical space, but. But also olfactory space, and auditory space, and. I _like_ the space you take up. It’s comforting.”

“Matt…”

Shaking his head, Matt opens his arms. Foggy’s in them immediately, squeezing Matt tight in one of those intense, wonderful full-body hugs that he does best. Hugging back, Matt lets out a relieved sigh.

“You’re my best friend, Fogs,” he says. “Making you self-conscious isn’t a nice feeling for me. I don’t… I don’t ever want you to feel like I want you to be anything but what you are.”

Foggy’s laugh is a little wet, but it’s happy.

“You are such a sap, Matt,” he says with a sniffle. “Jeez. Ok. I’ll try not to worry about it.”

“Good.”

Only then do they let go of each other. Foggy sniffs a few times, rubs at his eyes. And Matt has no idea what to say. He thinks his words have helped, if only a little, but there’s still… His stomach squirms as he thinks about Matthew’s recriminations from the previous night. Thinks about the ways that his actions have probably made Foggy feel alone, unloved. Like Matt didn’t value him as a friend.

“Why don’t you two go for a walk,” Franklin suggests suddenly, and the air in the room swirls as he gestures at Matthew and Foggy. “I’d like to talk to Matt alone, ok?”

“Yeah,” agrees Matthew warmly, and there’s a gentle sound of skin on skin as he squeezes Franklin’s hand. “Sure thing.”

Foggy nods, hair swishing slightly.

“Yes. Please. Get me out of here before I blubber all over anyone else,” he says hurriedly.

There’s more heat coming off his face than usual – he must be blushing. But it’s a good-natured embarrassment, not the kind that comes with sour, humiliated sweat, so Matt just smiles. He eavesdrops a little, admittedly, as Matthew and Foggy head out the door and down the street. But he’s used to keeping tabs on Foggy, so that’s only natural. Matthew is already making Foggy laugh, which is good. A slight sting goes through Matt’s chest and he rubs at his heart – an injury acting up? Though he’d thought everything was healing up fine…

“Are they out of range yet?” asks Franklin, and Matt’s senses are thrown forcefully back into his apartment.

“Yeah, they.” Matt clears his throat. “Yes, they just passed out of range.”

“Good. I didn’t think you’d want to do this with an audience – and, well. I’m assuming you and Matthew are both kind of hover-y stalker types. C’mere.”

Normally, Matt would scrounge up some indignation at being called a stalker, or try to parry with a witty retort, but. He’s a little stuck on what else Franklin said.

“This?” he asks warily, settling onto the couch next to his best friend’s double. “Are you. Did. Is there a reason you wanted to talk to me alone?”

“Yes. Because I know that guilty face,” Franklin tells him with a chuckle. “How could I not?”

The light brush of Franklin’s knuckles against his cheek surprises Matt enough to make him jolt. His face feels hot, suddenly, and he’s not sure why.

“I. I’m.”

“Just tell me, Matt. Whatever it is, I promise, I’ll do my best to help.”

The offer is so sincere it almost aches. Franklin’s pulse beats a steady rhythm of _truth, truth, truth_ that fills Matt’s veins with sunshine – the way only Foggy’s heart ever has.

“I just.” Matt ducks his head, can’t help picking anxiously at the fabric of his hooded sweatshirt. “He’s put you through so much, and I… I’ve put Foggy through so much. It’s so unbalanced. Why would— _why_ would you…?”

“Matthew… Well, he’s not the only one who’s made mistakes in our friendship,” Franklin tells Matt gently, resting a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder and shaking it lightly – the move is familiar, something Foggy does to express camaraderie or pull him out of a funk, and even when Franklin pulls away Matt’s shoulder feels warm. “I’ve said and done things I’m less than proud of now. I’ve— I’m not as good as he makes me out to be. Sometimes I think the only reason I’m brave enough to do the right thing is because of him. And sometimes I… I’ve hurt him. You have to understand, Matt, there are times…” Franklin’s breath stutters, but he swallows and continues. “I called him crazy. I kicked him out of our firm. I don’t know how many times now I’ve told him things are over between us. And I did those things because I felt like they were my only option at the time, but that’s not an excuse. I guess I just don’t want your relationship with your Foggy to be skewed by Matty’s rose-tinted glasses, as it were. I’ve messed up, a lot. I’m sure your Foggy has and will too.”

And he… He’s right. Foggy’s done things, said things that have hurt. Like Franklin did to Matthew, he’s called Matt crazy. He’s walked out. And the truth is Matthew had acknowledged that, even if he did gloss over it a little. But more important than any of that, any of the mistakes, is to know if…

“He said you always come back,” Matt blurts out. “Even if you— Even if you leave, you always come back.”

“He would say that,” Franklin sighs fondly. “But the truth is, sometimes he comes to get me. It’s never just a one-way street, Matt. That’s what being best friends means.”

Matt… He’s not quite sure what to do with that. He’s never been one to chase after people. But then again, Franklin’s right – friendship is a two-way street. Expecting Foggy to be the one to come back to him after any fight, that’s not… He wants to be brave enough to meet him halfway. To believe that if he goes to Foggy of his own volition looking to make up, that Foggy will want to.

With Franklin sitting next to him on the couch – warm and steady-pulsed and smelling like Foggy’s shampoo – it seems a little more possible.

“Is it worth it?” he asks. “To you? Is it worth it, being… Being friends with him?”

There’s a startled little huff of laughter, and the couch shifts slightly as Franklin leans back. If Matt wasn’t paying such close attention he wouldn’t notice, but Franklin must tip his head back because his pulse gets just the slightest bit louder like he’s bared his throat. He’s used a little bit of Foggy’s cologne, apparently. A funny shiver goes through Matt and he tries to ignore it so he can focus on Franklin’s answer.

“Oh, my young friend, that is… A loaded question. There are times – the times I walked out on him – that I would have answered no. He’s… A hard man to understand sometimes. Difficult to get close to. I’m sure you know that.”

Despite himself, Matt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears.

“I. Yeah, I know.”

“But,” Franklin adds firmly, “he’s also the best friend I’ve ever had. None of his flaws or bad decisions could ever stack up to how truly, irrevocably good he is. How bright and brilliant and kind he can be. How much of his heart he’s given to the world. And the fact that he cares about me, the fact that sometimes he even sets aside his tendency towards martyrdom and Catholic self-flagellation to rely on me? There’s nothing else like it in the world. When he’s honest and there and with me? I always feel safe. There’s no one I’d rather have as my best friend.”

Normally, Matt has better control over his insecurities, but… But Franklin’s more than just a version of Foggy, he’s a Foggy that’s had ten extra years of dealing with Matt’s issues – and though their lives are significantly divergent in some places, Matt has no doubt that Matthew has just as many issues as he does. Franklin’s word would be definitive. An anchor, something Matt can brace himself against.

“No one?” he asks weakly.

“Not even Captain America,” promises Franklin. “And we know him.”

It’s the same bright tone Foggy uses when they’re teasing each other, but the words have weight to them – are utterly serious. And even though they’re exactly the right words in exactly the right tone, Matt’s not sure he can handle acknowledging them. He tries to smile and play it off instead.

“You know Captain America? Like, personally?”

There’s a slight stutter in Franklin’s heartbeat, in his breathing – they’re sounds of realization. But he doesn’t call Matt on anything, just allows him the out graciously. Matt’s not sure his own Foggy would have the patience to do the same.

“Yup! Although he’s forgotten he knows me. It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, mass memory-wiping is one of many things I hope you two never have to deal with. Your universe seems to be at least on a slightly more even keel than ours. … Well. Then again, Karen and the Punisher.”

Franklin rambles on in that vein for several minutes, until the tension eases again. Matt rests his cheek against the back of the couch and just lets himself listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, you get a Shadowland mention, free of charge! Referencing comic plot lines I haven't actually read seems risky, but hey, that's like the whole spirit of Daredevil, right? Somehow, the running gag for this fic is becoming "accuracy to the comics lore won't stop me because I can't read!"
> 
> There is absolutely too much history between these idiots to ever cover it all, so hopefully I'm making at least a passable attempt at doing them justice, lol


	3. The Ups and Downs of Loving Matt Murdock - Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy and Matthew spend the day walking and talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I went into this thinking it would be five chapters, but I was persuaded to split chapter three into two parts for the sake of the narrative. What will now be chapter four (but is really chapter three part two) is still gonna be in Foggy's PoV, just FYI.

Foggy’s glad to have an excuse to get away before he makes an even bigger idiot of himself. He’s still having a lot of strong feelings about Matt reassuring him and it’s embarrassing enough crying in front of your best friend slash love of your life. Adding in an alternate universe version of both of you just makes everything a hundred times worse. Best to get out while the getting is good.

And even if he’s not sure what Franklin wants to talk to Matt about… After spending the morning hearing stories about Franklin’s world and his misadventures with Matthew, Foggy knows he can safely entrust Matt to him. Which is kind of refreshing, actually, because he’s got a list a mile long of people to never, _ever_ entrust Matt’s well-being to.

“I can hear you thinking too hard,” Matthew comments, startling Foggy from his brooding.

He scoffs a little, glancing up at the blue sky above them.

“Oh? And what does that sound like?”

“A pencil sharpener,” replies Matthew solemnly.

There’s a tiny little upturn at the corner of his lips that tells Foggy he’s joking, and whether it’s the joke or the familiar tiny smile, Foggy bursts into laughter.

“Grinding away at all my brain cells, am I?” he asks.

Matthew shrugs and makes a ‘what can you do’ sort of noise. _Ridiculous_ , Foggy thinks fondly, looking over at him out of the corner of his eye. With the way Matthew moves and his familiar grip on Foggy’s arm as they make their way down the block, it’s almost like walking with Matt. With the exception of the vibrant red hair, of course.

Well… Really, it’s not just in his coloring. The differences are slight, but unmistakable once Foggy gets up the courage to study Matthew in earnest. Matthew looks more relaxed, more… Unbuttoned, maybe, than Matt usually does, even on his days off. His hair isn’t styled or gelled the way it was last night, and it falls boyishly over his forehead. The effect is utterly charming. Matthew’s nose is a bit more crooked than Matt’s – likely broken a few more times. He fills out Matt’s t-shirt a bit more in the shoulders, which is… Something. His ass isn’t quite on par with Matt’s, though, Foggy thinks, before guiltily tearing his eyes away from Matthew’s nonetheless very nice butt.

 _Bad Foggy_.

He continues looking Matthew over but very sternly orders himself to keep his eyes above the belt. The next thing to catch his gaze is the pattern of unfamiliar, almost invisible scars spattering Matthew’s face. Matt has a few, but not nearly so many. Matthew’s also got smile lines, which Foggy hopes means he’s had lots of reasons to smile. And, close up, Foggy can see individual strands of silver threaded through Matthew’s red hair like wisps of spider silk on autumn leaves.

He’s beautiful. And if Foggy’d had any doubt that this is in fact some variation of Matt Murdock, the uncontrollable desire to wax poetic about his appearance would have cleared it up immediately.

“And now I know you’re thinking about something nice,” Matthew teases. “Which sounds like purring cats, by the way.”

Foggy laughs again, a little warm with embarrassment.

“Oh my god. You are so full of shit.”

Which earns him a theatrical little pout from Matthew.

“Most people say I’m full of charm, or wit.”

“Or bad ideas,” retorts Foggy, because he knows there’s no way Franklin stands for Matthew’s big head and he won’t either. “Or ego?”

“Now you’re just being cruel,” Matthew complains.

“Yeah, yeah. Suck it up, hero.” Foggy pauses – they’re a block and a half away now, so it’s likely Matt’s not able to hear, and it’s been bothering him since he walked in the door of Matt’s apartment. “About Matt—”

“You and Franklin ate breakfast, right?” interrupts Matthew before Foggy can even get his question out. “Smells like… Breakfast burritos?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Were they any good?”

Foggy sighs.

“Yes, _but_ —”

It takes a few more tries, but he does eventually get the hint that Matthew wants him to zip it. So, instead, Foggy follows along with whatever small talk inanities Matthew steers them towards, although he’s sure his slightly harder footfalls – he’s not stomping, _really_ – give away that he’s irritated.

Another block and a half later, Matthew pauses mid-stride, tilts his head.

“Ok,” he says after a few seconds of silence. “We’re out of Matt’s range now.”

Foggy can’t help but drop his annoyance to whistle, low, in disbelief.

“Jesus. He can really hear this far?”

Matthew shrugs.

“Only when it’s you.”

Foggy’s not entirely sure how to feel about that. There’s a squirmy sensation low in his gut that he can’t pinpoint as decidedly positive or negative.

“Oh,” he manages to say.

Matthew bumps their shoulders together, gently, and begins walking again.

“What is it you wanted to ask me about Matt?”

“Well,” Foggy says, trying for casual and missing it by a mile, “it’s just. Can I assume the two of you got up to some, uh. Devilish business last night?”

“Hm?”

Matthew’s brows knit together over his glasses. With a sigh, Foggy taps his own bottom lip with the index finger of his free hand.

“The split lip,” he explains. “He usually only gets that kind of injury from fighting, and it wasn’t there yesterday when you guys left my place.” There’s a noise of realization from Matthew. “So. Daredeviling?”

“Ahh, no, sorry, that was me,” Matthew says, and he almost looks sheepish. “We were sparring, at Fogwell’s. I wanted to apologize for…”

“Being a dick?” asks Foggy, just to be a shit.

“Is that any way to talk to your elders?” Matthew complains, but Foggy’s already got an answer for him.

“It’s the only way to talk to Matt Murdock.”

A huff of laughter spills past Matthew’s lips as he shakes his head.

“You Foggies are all alike,” he says. “No respect for all the hard work we heroes do.”

“I’m sure you get enough ‘respect’ from your swooning fanbase,” Foggy answers archly.

He’s got to live up to Franklin’s cool as a cucumber example, after all. And it’s… Fun, actually, teasing Matthew this way. Easier to do than to tease Matt about the Daredeviling, because… Well, because that’s all too close. Matthew’s world is far away and ridiculous and it hasn’t affected Foggy personally. With Matt, it’s tough to think about Daredevil without also thinking about Matt bleeding out on his floor, or unconscious on a rooftop with his helmet cracked down the middle, or…

Matthew’s got a distance to his vigilantism. Foggy’s never had to watch him almost die.

“Swooning fanbase? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liar.”

* * *

They wander down the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, discuss the difference in placement of this shop or that one. The differing franchise names. They talk so long Foggy has to shell out for some overpriced bottled water for their parched throats, and they settle together on a stoop to rest their legs and drink.

“Foggy?” Matthew asks when their water is half gone.

“Yeah?”

“What have things been like here, since Matt started… You know. What have you guys faced here?”

This is not a story Foggy wants to tell. It’s not a nice story. It’s a sucky story. Full of near-death experiences and hurt feelings. And ninjas.

“Didn’t Matt tell you about all that?” he asks weakly.

“I’ve heard his version of things,” Matthew explains. “Up to a point. Didn’t quite get to the end. I thought maybe hearing it all from you would be interesting.”

It’s phrased casually, but. Foggy’s known Matt long enough to know when he’s trying not to admit he really, really wants something desperately, and that skill transfers, makes Matthew just as easy to read.

“If you count angry rants about Matt’s idiocy as interesting.”

Which is a joke, but it’s not much of one. Ever since the revelation of Daredevil, Matt’s done more reckless, heart-stoppingly stupid shit than Foggy can accurately catalogue. And most of it has scared years off Foggy’s life.

“They’re definitely familiar,” Matthew muses. “But maybe yours will have a different flavor.”

“You’ve absolutely lost it. But ok, you asked for it.”

Still skeptical of whether Matthew really knows what he’s getting into, Foggy launches into his tale. It takes him almost an hour and several backtracks just to cover their first bout with Fisk and get to Matt’s dorky devil fetish-wear.

“And I was so _relieved_ about the helmet, too,” Foggy mutters, knowing he’s rambling. “For about the six months it took him to get shot in the head. Granted, the bullet didn’t make it through the helmet, so at least it did its job.”

“He has a helmet?” Matthew asks, looking startled.

“ _Had_ a helmet,” corrects Foggy. “He doesn’t at the moment because he lost it at some point, you know, when a _building_ fell on him. And because his tailor’s in the clink. Which I’m _working on_ , but I’m getting nowhere fast – apparently the guy was a parolee so the system’s not super keen to let him out. I want to have a solid case before I take it to Matt.”

Matthew doesn’t respond after a couple of seconds, so Foggy glances up at him. What he sees is a definite parallel to Matt’s slightly scrunched trying-not-to-cry face.

“That.” Matthew clears his throat. “That’s really. You really look out for him.”

“That’s what Foggies are for, I guess,” Foggy answers, and has to look away, has to stand again. “I bet Franklin’s done way more—”

“Foggy.”

Matthew doesn’t even bother with Matt’s usual fumble, just stands gracefully and makes an accurate grab for Foggy’s elbow.

“Sorry. That was… I’m just being an idiot.”

With a slight nudge from Matthew, they begin walking again.

“You’re not,” Matthew says. “But you shouldn’t put yourself down like that. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just… I’m basically in awe of how chill Franklin is with all this super-bullshit,” Foggy admits, scuffing his feet a little and sighing. “It’s… I just, I feel like I freak out over every little thing. I know it upsets Matt, that I don’t… That I have trouble accepting, you know…”

Matthew tightens his grip on Foggy’s arm a little, gives it a comforting squeeze.

“Hey. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Fo— er, Franklin’s had ten extra years to deal with it. And trust me, when all this first started, he was about as far from ‘chill’—” Matthew actually lets go of Foggy’s arm for a second to do the finger quotes, which should _not_ be adorable from someone ten years his senior but somehow _is_ — “as it was possible to get. He still has trouble handling it sometimes, he’s just gotten better at putting on a brave face.”

“Well, then there’s hope for me yet,” Foggy jokes.

“Sounds like you’re already doing a wonderful job.”

The words are sincere, warm. They fill Foggy’s veins with light, give him enough of a boost to continue the story of Daredevil when Matthew nudges unsubtly that he wants to hear the rest. It’s tougher, getting through the ninjas and Midland Circle, through Fisk’s return, Poindexter. He tells it as clinically as he can, summarizes, and as always leaves out the part that might at least hopefully be a secret to Matthew even if it’s never been one to Matt.

“Well,” Matthew says, when the tale is all told. “I think anyone would agree with regards to Daredevil you’ve been put through your paces far more aggressively than Franklin was at your age. It must have been scary.”

“It was,” agrees Foggy. “It is. And I just, I don’t know if Matt understands how afraid I am, how much… I just. I’m not like him. I’m not brave like that.”

“I don’t know. You sound pretty brave to me.”

Which, coming from Matthew, is really something. It leaves Foggy a bit breathless. He pushes through it, accepts the praise with his usual bravado and turns them back towards something silly and simple.

* * *

“You’re hungry,” notes Matthew about half a second before Foggy’s stomach growls.

“ _So_ weird,” Foggy says, but can’t muster up any annoyance about it.

He’s not sure if he’s finally getting used to the embarrassing invasiveness of Matt’s entire existence or if he just has too much else to deal with at this point.

“But useful,” Matthew replies cheerfully. “If you’re anything like my Foggy, you get very grumpy when you’re hungry.”

“I came out to have a good time and I’m feeling so attacked right now.”

“Poor you.”

Matthew quickly dictates a text to Franklin to tell him and Matt not to wait up – that the two of them are going to lunch together. It’s not a date, of course, but it does kind of feel like one. Foggy allows himself to tuck the memory away in the same fond little spot in his heart where he keeps Matt’s soft, goofy smiles and drunken giggles. The same spot where he’s probably got the words Nelson and Murdock tattooed, more permanent than the ink on a thousand bar napkins.

Matthew leads them to lunch with the power of his discerning (read: picky) super nose. It’s a cute little Indian restaurant with chili pepper lights hanging from the ceiling.

“Matt loves this place,” Foggy notes as they step inside. “So I guess your tastes match at least a little.”

More than a little, as it turns out. Matthew’s order is identical to Matt’s usual, and his dry humor is nearly the same as well. All in all, it’s almost exactly like eating lunch out with Matt.

“About your Karen,” Matthew says suddenly, when they’re halfway through the meal, and Foggy’s heart sinks a little.

“Yeah?”

“I… I don’t know if Franklin told you, but there was a time, with our Karen that. I was.” Matthew has to stop and take a drink, but Foggy thinks it’s more to fortify himself than because his throat is dry. “I was planning to marry her. Do… Are Matt and Karen…?”

Foggy’s heart sinks for an entirely different, entirely more selfish reason.

“They did date for a little while,” he admits, fidgeting with his napkin. “But it all went kind of sideways when Elektra and Castle started playing wack-a-mole with our lives. I always.” He swallows, tries to steady himself and drain any lingering jealousy out of his voice. “I figured they’d get back together now that we’re all… But they haven’t.”

“Because of Frank Castle?”

“I mean, maybe?” Foggy shrugs, pauses to take a bite. “I don’t really have a way to know without being super nosy. Which I’m not usually against, but Matt doesn’t like being prodded about feelings stuff and Karen gets pissed if she thinks you’re patronizing her. And Frank… The less I see of that guy, the better. I prefer to try and forget he exists.”

Playing with his food a little, Matthew gives a thoughtful hum.

“Because you hate his guts.”

“Well.” Foggy sighs. “No. He _has_ saved Karen, and Matt, and Brett. So. I might think he’s impressively disturbed and still hold a grudge over him tanking his case the way he did, but… I owe him, I guess. On the other hand, it doesn’t mean I want him dating my friend. Not that I can totally blame her or anything. He’s, like, only as tall as you and Matt but he’s jacked and scary enough that it gives him the illusion of a couple extra inches, I swear. And when he’s not actively killing anybody, he’s got these big, soulful dark eyes, I don’t even know, man.”

“Oh my god.” Matthew looks torn between amusement and horror. “You think he’s _hot_.”

Foggy is… He’s beyond shame, at this point, is the thing. Something about Matthew’s flippant demeanor makes it easy to just let everything out. Matthew comes from a world with villains named Stilt Man and Leap-Frog, Foggy being a teensy bit attracted to Matt’s sworn frienemy isn’t even a blip on his radar probably.

“You have no idea. And thank god _he_ has no idea either because I genuinely don’t know how he would respond to that revelation. He’s a beautiful, deeply terrifying man.”

“Deeply terrifying, maybe,” Matthew says, and returns to his food with renewed enthusiasm. “But I’ll have to take your word on beautiful.”

“You’re in good hands, then. I’m a spectacular judge of the male form.”

Which he is. You can’t be best buddies with Matt Murdock and not know what true beauty is. It’s more than physical beauty too, because, ok, he’s hot like burning, yeah, but. God. That smile. The way the joy just shines out of him when he’s happy, holy shit. It’s just one more reason that… Well, not that there’s never been anyone else, _of course_ there’s been other people, but. Matt’s magnetic in a way no one else is, draws Foggy back in every time – for friendship, and for the stupid pining stuff too.

“I’m sure you are.”

The words pull Foggy out of his own ridiculous head, thank goodness. He laughs, though it’s weak, and goes back to eating.

* * *

They linger as long as they can, honestly, but once you clear your plate it’s pretty obvious you’re done and it’s time to go. They call for the check.

“I’ve got it,” Matthew offers.

He pulls a wallet out of his back pocket and slides a couple folded bills onto the table.

“No, I’ll pay,” Foggy says, covering Matthew’s hand with his own. “I don’t want you flooding our economy with your bizarro world Monopoly money.”

“I know we Matts don’t have a great track record for thinking ahead, but I did actually consider that. I took this cash from your Matt’s wallet.”

“Oh my god, you dick!” Foggy laughs. “Now I really can’t let you pay.”

They squabble for a bit and end up splitting the bill. Foggy makes a mental note to pay Matt back on Matthew’s behalf. As they walk back out onto the street, he thinks about what he’s learned from Franklin about his and Matthew’s world. Considers that maybe, maybe he’s got the right to ask some tough questions of his own. That doesn’t make it any easier to muster up the actual nerve, but then, Matthew’s got two decades’ worth of spotting Foggy Nelson’s tells.

“What is it?” he asks. “You can ask me anything, you know.”

“Even if you don’t like it?”

“Yeah, even then. Of course,” Matthew says with absolute surety.

And that’s enough. Enough that Foggy can get the words out.

“Franklin, he. He’s in remission.”

Though he freezes for a second, Matthew nods and continues with barely a hitch in his step.

“Yes, he is.”

“Do you ever worry that it’ll come back? The cancer?”

“Every day,” Matthew admits freely. “But… I know what I’m looking for now. I’d be able to tell.”

“And that’s enough for you?” wonders Foggy.

The slight purse of Matthew’s lips gives a pretty clear ‘no’, but he just shrugs.

“It’s how things are,” he explains, “like it or not. There are no guarantees. So I just… Do what I can. Like always.”

It’s obvious that bothers him, not being able to do more, but the fact that he has the maturity to accept his limits is both promising and heartwarming. Foggy knows Matt struggles with that sort of thing a lot – takes on more guilt and responsibility than one man can reasonably handle. Matthew gives him a little hope that it’s something Matt will grow out of.

“Is it selfish of me,” Foggy wonders at last, tearing his eyes away from Matthew to stare up at the sky, “to hope that the cancer is one of the differences between our universes?”

Matthew doesn’t even have to think about his answer, apparently.

“Of course it’s not,” he insists. “I’m sure it’s how he feels too. I think we all do. Franklin and I, we want the best for you and Matt. Any good thing we wish we could have given ourselves at your age. But in this case, at least if it is the same you have some heads-up about it.”

Foggy nods. He knows that Matthew’s right, but… Still…

“Yeah, I. I guess…”

Silence falls between them, thick and uncomfortable, for several seconds. Normally, when it comes to Matt, it’s up to Foggy to pull them out of a depressing conversation. He’s not sure he can do it this time.

And then Matthew straightens up, clears his throat and starts taking slightly jauntier steps.

“I’m just grateful the propensity for eating limburger and bacon cheesecake isn’t a multidimensional trait,” he says with a teasing grin, using his grip on Foggy’s arm to jostle him a bit.

The tension dissolves like it was never there, and Foggy feels like a weight has been lifted off his lungs. All his air comes out in a rush of words.

“ _Limburger_? Whew! I knew he had to be hiding some skeletons in his closet, but I never suspected it would be defiling one of God’s own desserts with smelly cheeses. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am _all_ for cheese and cheese-flavored snacks, but… _Dude_. There is a time and a place. That is straight up cheesecake blasphemy. A cardinal dessert sin.”

Matthew’s laughter rings clear and bright through the air. He throws his head back, Foggy notices, like Matt does sometimes. It… Really accentuates his throat. A very nice throat. Foggy has to forcibly direct his mind away from that train of thought, and mentally sends Franklin his apologies for using his eating habits to do it.

He and Matthew spend the next fifteen minutes discussing Franklin’s various food-related atrocities. There are… A lot. Foggy actually goes a little green around the gills a couple times, and he’s well-known for his iron stomach. Apparently, Franklin’s is made of vibranium instead.

“We definitely don’t have enough money to waste food on inedible combinations like that,” Foggy laughs, shaking his head.

But instead of joining in on the joke, Matthew stays silent. And when he finally opens his mouth again, the words are hesitant.

“I was actually kind of surprised… Hm.”

Matthew clears his throat, and Foggy’s eyebrows shoot up. There hasn’t been much so far that Matthew’s had trouble being entirely candid about.

“What?” Foggy asks. “Just say it, man.”

“It’s just. What you’ve said, about the state of your firm. In my world, a lot of our start-up capital – all of it, really – was Franklin’s. He and his family were always very well off. It’s thanks to him I was able to pay my tuition and graduate.”

Foggy takes a moment to imagine that. The Nelsons have never been destitute, of course. Foggy’s always had enough to eat, had clothes to wear. But… A life where he’d never had to worry about money is something else altogether. A life where every little decision wasn’t integral to his long-term future. He’s felt a little of that, thanks to his time at HC&B, but to have it be his normal? It’s a bizarre thought.

“His family’s rich?” Foggy asks at last, shaking his head. “ _Unfair_. No wonder he dresses so classy. It would’ve been nice to have _that_ be the same.”

“Has your experience really been so different from his?” Matthew wonders.

“I lived above a deli, so, uh,  _yeah_. I think about half my life’s problems could’ve been solved if I’d been born well-off.”

“Still. There are other things he’s had to deal with that mean it hasn’t all been as rosy as you imagine,” Matthew chastens gently, and there’s an odd guilty cast to his face that makes Foggy wonder if he thinks he’s turned Foggy against Franklin a little; which is silly, of course, Foggy’s kind of envious but he’s in a good place now so he’s not bitter.

“Such as?” He wonders, purely to satisfy his curiosity.

“In law school, a professor tried to frame him for plagiarism and have him kicked out. He’s been through a divorce. Everything he’s had to deal with thanks to Daredevil, obviously. There was the cancer too, of course. And... Well. I don’t know... Is Anna Nelson your birth mother?”

Foggy’s chest goes cold.

“Ah,” he murmurs, knowing Matthew will hear. “Rosalind.”

“Yeah. Rosalind.”

Foggy doesn’t even want to know the details. His own wounds with Rosalind are still quietly festering even after all these years, buried beneath everything else but never really gone. It makes life easier to pretend she doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t.

“How does he do it?” Foggy asks. “He seems so... On top of everything.”

“I genuinely don’t know. He’s amazing.”

The smile on Matthew’s face is so proud and tender and just. Everything. And so maybe Foggy slips for a second, lets ten years of longing wash over him.

It’s a mistake. Matthew jerks to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and the contented expression slips from his face.

“Wait, what?” he murmurs, head cocked a little to the side and his brow furrowed in a familiar look of confusion. “Foggy. You...?”

 _Fuck_ , Foggy thinks. He has no idea what his body is telling Matthew, but the shock and dawning realization on his face can’t possibly bode well.

“I’m. It’s not like,” he stammers, trying to salvage what little dignity he’s got left.

But Matthew only shakes his head, perfect mouth pursing into a thin line. And then, with the same understated strength his own Matt has, Matthew pulls Foggy aside, onto a side street out of the way of foot traffic, wheels him around so they’re facing one another.

“I know we’re not— I know things are different, that we don’t really know each other but you... You’re still Foggy. You know you can tell me anything, right...?”

He even tugs off his sunglasses as he says it, the same way Foggy’s Matt does when he wants you to know how earnest he is. Maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s how piercingly ice blue Matthew’s eyes are. Maybe it’s the little crow’s feet Foggy can see at the corners of those eyes, or the silver in his red hair, or the way his voice wraps around Foggy’s name — like it’s the most important, the most precious word he knows. Whatever the reason, Foggy breaks down and spills his guts. Matthew tucks his sunglasses away as he listens, keeps them off like he knows how close Foggy is to running for the metaphorical hills, here. It’s what lets him get it all out in the open at last. All the missing pieces of the story. How Matt’s always been beautiful to him, from the moment they met. Matt’s determination and caring heart — the way he made Foggy want to be better. Inside jokes and shared futures and the best friend Foggy had ever had. Years of fending off useless jealousy. All the lies and the pain. The distance, the way Matt didn’t show up. Elektra. Walking away, and how in the end, no matter what Foggy had told himself, the hurt had never mattered as much as Matt.

“I spent months telling myself that splitting up was as bad as it could get, that holding onto my anger was justified,” he explains weakly, scrubbing a hand over his face to try and ward off tears. “It felt like it was. That I was protecting myself. But then he— that building fell on him and I thought he died and all I could think was that staying away didn’t make it hurt any less. But he’s alive, so I can’t... I don’t want to be apart from him anymore, no matter what happens. No matter how many psychos like Poindexter we have to square up against, or how scared I am. I. I love him.”

Matthew makes a soft, wounded noise that has Foggy’s heart skittering nervously in his chest. It’s not like it even matters what the expression on his face is, since Matthew can’t see it anyway, but Foggy still angles his head away. A callused hand cradles his cheek, turns him back to Matthew.

“Foggy,” he says softly — the kind of worn, patient gentleness that Foggy isn’t sure his own Matt possesses yet.

Even then, it raises Foggy’s hackles. He can feel every muscle in his body tensing up, can feel himself adopting a defensive posture no matter how much he wants to play it cool. Can feel tears beginning to burn behind his eyes. God only knows what Matthew can sense off him.

“I don’t— Can’t you,” he pleads, and his voice cracks pathetically. “Can’t you just ignore it? Please? I’m not... I don’t think I could handle a rejection right now.”

A second hand caresses his other cheek, framing his face in Matthew’s warm palms.

“This is— pretty much the opposite of a rejection,” Matthew mutters, and then presses his mouth to Foggy’s in a heartbreakingly tender kiss.

Foggy’s knees actually buckle a little. Matthew moves to catch him; wraps his arms around Foggy’s waist and breathes a quiet laugh against his lips. Every detail is ridiculous and perfect and sweet and it just— Doesn’t make sense.

“What the fuck,” Foggy says, with feeling, once he’s not literally attached at the mouth to  _Matt Murdock_.

The giddy look on Matthew’s face drops in an instant.

“I,” He stammers, blue eyes darting unseeingly with panic. “I thought. Did you not want...?”

“No, I did,” assures Foggy, giving Matthew a light pat on the shoulder. “I definitely did. Do. But. But seriously, what? Where is this coming from?”

Matthew clears his throat and they take a step back from one another. Get some air. Foggy’s not sure about Matthew but he himself needs a little oxygen if he wants his brain to work through this particular plot twist.

“Ah, well... I’m in love with my Foggy,” Matthew confesses with a wry, handsome smile, ruffling a hand through his red hair. “The way you’re in love with your Matt. He’s ridiculous, and brilliant, and wonderful. He understands me like no one else, and when everyone else is gone he’s still there — how could I not? But... It’s not going to come to anything. And that’s... I’ve made my peace with it. As long as he stays with me, as long as he’s happy, as long as I have my best friend, that’s really all that matters.”

Foggy’s heart squeezes in his chest at the familiar sentiments and he wonders if Matthew can hear it.

“Exactly,” he murmurs. “That’s how I feel too.”

Matthew smiles wryly, shrugs.

“And I know it’s not quite the same as...” He trails off and shrugs again. “You’re not my Foggy and I’m not your Matt. But... Even so, just for the moment — if we both want this, what’s the harm?”

And that’s. That’s a very good point. An extremely good point.

“There’s none that I can think of,” Foggy admits slowly.

The beatific, boyish grin that washes across Matthew’s face then is worth everything. He’s heart-achingly beautiful, as sweet and happy as the teenager Foggy first fell in love with, and Foggy is too weak to deny himself this.

“Alright, Matthew, you’re on. Get back over here and kiss me like a man.”

Except, Matthew hesitates. Takes a step forward and pauses. He’s pretty clearly thinking about something. Foggy tries hard not to let his stomach go sour at the thought of what he’ll do if Matthew backs out or laughs him off. At last, Matthew seems to gather himself, wets his lips and speaks.

“Just for now, just here, can... Will you call me Matt?” he asks. “Like I’m yours and I belong to you.”

“ _Matt_ ,” Foggy chokes out, his throat tight with emotion.

Something about the request is gutting, because, well. Maybe Foggy has still been thinking of him as Other Matt. And sure, he’s not the Matt that Foggy’s known for years and years, but he’s not really ‘other’, it’s not that the Matt from Foggy’s world is the true Matt. This Matt, he’s real and true and familiar too. He’s not Matthew, no matter what they decided on to try and keep the doubles straight. He’s just Matt.

“It’s just hearing you call me Matthew makes me feel like I’m in trouble,” jokes Matt, turning his face away.

The move is subtle, like how a sighted person might glance around absently, but the set of Matt’s jaw tells another tale entirely. This time it’s Foggy who reaches out — gently eases Matt’s face back towards him. Matt still has his glasses tucked in his breast pocket, so Foggy can read the panic in his blue eyes perfectly.

“Hey,” he soothes Matt. “Come on. You don’t have to play it off, man. You could ask me for anything. As God is my witness, I am a huge sucker for Matt Murdock.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words. Matt dips Foggy in a dramatic, swoon-worthy Hollywood kiss. It lasts so long that Foggy’s gasping when they break apart, but apparently even at forty-four Matt’s got serious guns because his arms didn’t falter once even though he’d taken pretty much all of Foggy’s weight for the sake of his ridiculous kiss.

“You’re perfect,” Matt says, equal amounts of disbelief and surety in his tone.

“Flatterer,” accuses Foggy.

“Well. I’m something of a sucker for Foggy Nelson.” There’s a pause, where Matt ducks his head — presses his nose to Foggy’s pulse point and inhales. “And not to be shallow but— your cologne is driving me absolutely wild.”

“If that’s what you’re gonna say, be as shallow as you like,” Foggy replies weakly, because what else is he supposed to do?

Matt presses a sweet little kiss to Foggy’s throat.

“You’re cute.”

Normally he finds ‘cute’ a little condescending, but. Fuck, he’ll take it when it’s said in that tone – all hot and shimmery. And when he’s getting it from a Matt Murdock, he’d take just about anything. Still, he really should try to hold his own. At least a little. He leans back out of reach, tips Matt’s chin up, and bites that oh-so-tempting lower lip.

“I’ll show you cute.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe there’s a world out there where I’m not in love with you,” Foggy muses dizzily, much later, pressed against the brick wall behind him. “I mean— how? You’re... you’re  _you_.”

“We might want to get a room if we’re going to take this any further,” Matt mumbles instead of answering, pressing burning kisses against Foggy’s jaw.

Which is fine because the question was rhetorical anyway. And truthfully, he’s about three seconds from saying _screw it, take me home and ravish me, you handsome bastard_ , but—

“Ughhhhh.” Foggy lets his forehead drop onto Matt’s broad shoulder. “If we sleep together, he’ll be able to, like, smell it on me or something else equally horrifying, won’t he?”

There’s a familiar, bright laugh.

“Afraid so.”

“You have the _worst_ superpowers,” Foggy mutters petulantly.

“I suppose that means we’re done for the day,” replies Matt with some amusement, although it sounds like maybe there’s a note of wistfulness in his voice. “Let’s get you home, Foggy.”

“Can we just— Could we stay out a little longer?” Foggy asks, and he’s not above combing his fingers through the strands of red hair at the base of Matt’s neck for a little extra persuasion power. “Having a Matt who loves me back, at least transitively, is kinda novel. I don’t... I don’t want to go home yet.”

Matt shivers under the caress, and his smile goes a little hungry and dangerous.

“You really are something else.”

“Something else?”

“Maybe I should just say you’re a tease,” Matt croons, hooking his index fingers through Foggy’s belt loops to pull him closer. “Do you want me to stay or go?”

“Both,” Foggy admits, because even he doesn’t really know which way the scales are tipping anymore. “I learned from the best, after all.”

“Apparently so.” Matt’s smirk is pleased, but he backs off a little into their usual guiding position. “Well. Let’s seize the day.”

* * *

They end up at one of those fifties knockoff diners that does fantastic milkshakes. Matt orders strawberry, and Foggy gets chocolate, and he’s not sure whether it’s a compliment to him or to the diner that Matt doesn’t mind stealing sips of each other’s shakes. Then again, it’d be a little hypocritical of him to get weird about swapping spit with Foggy secondhand when he’s already gone for the gold firsthand, so to speak.

It’s… Nice. Serene, even. They’ve covered a lot of stuff today, a lot of… Just, really deep and kind of crazy stuff. That they’re able to just enjoy each other’s company quietly is a relief. And it’s one more way the Matts are alike. One more way that Foggy knows that, even though he’s not quite the same, the man sitting across the table is his best friend.

When they settle up, way later than it should take to drink two milkshakes, the waitress gives Matt a wink he can’t see but can probably sense somehow, and scribbles her number on their receipt. Foggy’s the only one who can read it, but he’s a thousand percent sure it’s not for him.

“You’re entirely too pretty for your own good,” he sighs after she leaves, crumpling up the receipt and banking it very impressively into the nearest trashcan.

“I’m pretty?” asks Matt, perking up like a puppy.

It’s adorable even if it’s probably half fake, and it makes Foggy’s face flush so hot that he has to take a sip from the dregs of his milkshake before he can settle back into the kind of fond amusement he’s been trying to project. Not that it really matters, of course, with Matt across the table listening to every little sign his body’s giving off.

“As if you don’t have people telling you how pretty you are every day of the week,” Foggy teases when he can find his voice again, resting his chin on his hand.

“It means more when you say it,” Matt replies without an ounce of shame.

Foggy can tell the exact second the besotted fluttering of his heart reaches Matt’s ears, because the sugar-sweet, charming smile on his face goes cocky and pleased. Foggy’s own Matt absolutely has a tendency towards grandstanding and smug arrogance, but it’s not on a hair-trigger the way this Matt’s is. Foggy’s not sure one is better or worse than the other. They’re both infuriatingly attractive in their own special ways.

“Alright, come on, Casanova,” Foggy says, because he knows when he’s beat. “I don’t think I can survive any more of your charm without suffering heart palpitations. Take me home.”

* * *

They make out in no less than five alleys on the way back to Foggy’s apartment. He thinks he should probably be kind of ashamed of himself, but. Come on. There’s nothing quite like a Matt Murdock come-hither look, and while he’s accustomed to seeing them in general, Foggy’s never had one directed _at_ him before. The power level head-on is completely different. He never stood a chance.

And. Honestly, the little marks that Matt is older than him are kind of doing something gooey and ridiculous to his insides. That’s never really been, like, A Thing for him before, but Foggy assumes it probably has more to do with the idea that he and Matt will be part of each other’s lives for at least another decade than it is about anything kinky. Not that Foggy’s thinking about his own Matt when he’s making out with this one, because he isn’t. It’s just, it’s more like… It’s more like, this Matt, who’s had Foggy in his life for over twenty years and wants him in it for the foreseeable future, who loves him, is sort of fulfilling every pathetic fantasy of Foggy’s heart.

Foggy kind of hopes he’s fulfilling a few of Matt’s pathetic, mushy fantasies in return.

Neither of them is brave enough or foolish enough to say ‘I love you’ – not when they know they’re not really the versions they want to say it to – but that doesn’t mean they don’t pepper in a few heart-melting endearments. When Matt calls him ‘darling’, Foggy’s whole body lights up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. He returns the favor with a breathy little ‘Matty’ that has Matt shivering from his flame-red hair to his borrowed sneakers.

Their, uh, detours, turn the twenty-minute walk into something closer to an hour, and it’s definitely supper time when they reach the door to Foggy’s apartment. Matt teases him about his grumbly stomach as Foggy unlocks the door. Once it’s open, the warm scent of cheese and sausage wafts out at him, along with the strains of some sort of dramatic instrumental music. Although he can’t get a view into the living room from the door, Foggy assumes Franklin’s probably on the couch taking advantage of his Netflix subscription.

“Guess this is goodnight,” Matt murmurs, planting a close-mouthed kiss on the side of Foggy’s neck.

“Get some sleep, when you get back to.” Foggy clears his throat, turns to face Matt. “When you get back to Matt’s place.”

“Suppose it’s back to Matthew for me. I feel a little like Cinderella at midnight.”

The metaphor is apt. And Foggy’s not really in a good place to argue. Matt… Can’t know about this. It would ruin everything. Shatter the veil-thin plausible deniability that’s part of the bedrock of Matt and Foggy’s friendship. So… Matthew’s right. The carriage has to turn back into a pumpkin. And Foggy needs to shower and brush his teeth before he goes into the office tomorrow, so Matt never, ever suspects what happened today.

“Hey. You’ll always be a princess to me,” he jokes weakly, combs his fingers through Matthew’s red hair one last time and presses a chaste kiss to his mouth. “Maybe… Maybe tomorrow night, if we haven’t found you a way home yet…”

“I’ll look forward to it, Prince Charming.”

Matthew doffs an invisible hat as he steps back, out of Foggy’s reach and away from the door. Foggy watches him go until the stairwell door blocks his line of sight, then heads into the apartment. Franklin narrows his eyes suspiciously when he catches sight of Foggy’s slightly-rumpled appearance, but at least has the decency not to comment. Instead, he offers up a box of pizza.

“It’s still warm,” he says kindly. “And Matt told me what you like. This one’s yours.”

A little trill of happiness sings through Foggy’s chest, drowning out at least a fraction of the melancholy.

“Thanks.”

Some things are complicated, but this is easy. Foggy settles next to Franklin on the couch and reaches for a slice of pizza.


	4. The Ups and Downs of Loving Matt Murdock - Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy have a fight. Foggy seeks advice from Franklin and ends up giving some of his own in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's pretty immediately apparent, but just FYI -- this chapter is also following Foggy. Next chapter, we'll get back to Matt's POV.
> 
> Two chapters left!! Woo!

Foggy brushes his teeth thoroughly before he goes to bed that night, and again in the morning. He also gives himself an aggressive scrub-down in the shower. Hopefully, that’s good enough. Part of him wishes he’d thought to ask Matthew for tips on evading Matt’s super nose because, well, Foggy’s the weak link here. Matthew’s not going to give them away because he knows what he’s doing. Which makes them sound like super spies instead of... Whatever they are.

Still, despite his worries, Foggy’s in a great mood. Yesterday was just what he’d needed — a chance to put voice to the feelings he’s kept bottled up for way too long to be healthy, a chance to get some reassurance, and the most action he’s gotten since he and Marci broke up again. All very cathartic. And it seemed like maybe he’d been able to give Matthew some of that same catharsis, which is even better. This thing between them is nothing that can last, obviously — Matthew’s surely itching to get home to protect his own New York, and Foggy wouldn’t do anything that long-distance even if interdimensional travel proved less spotty than it seems from this whole debacle. Still, there’s something heartening about knowing that out in the vast multiverse there’s at least one Matt Murdock who’s in love with Foggy Nelson.

And so, Foggy whistles as he cooks breakfast, and even manages to steadfastly ignore the way Franklin drizzles his bacon with ketchup and his eggs with mayo. At least, he does for long enough to wolf down his own portion of breakfast and book it back to his room. There, door shut, he’s free to shudder over it and make an animated and impolite face of disgust as he shucks his robe in favor of his work clothes. Good on the guy for his complete lack of hesitation or shame in eating what tastes good to him, but seriously. His taste buds must be wired in backwards or something. Foggy’s… Ok, Foggy’s definitely eaten some weird or questionable food. But Franklin’s got him beat, and Foggy is content to leave the title to him, thank you very much.

He nods decisively to himself, adjusting the knot of his tie – which is pink with subtle little embroidered hearts on it. It’s actually his Valentine’s Day tie, but… He’s feeling a little gooey and can’t help but express it in his clothing. All done up, Foggy strides out into the apartment proper to grab his work shoes from their usual spot by the door.

“Heading out?” Franklin asks, sipping his mug of coffee – which he thankfully takes like a normal person, cream and lots of sugar, instead of with some horrifying combination of additions Foggy can’t even imagine.

“That’s the plan. You could come in with me,” Foggy offers, slipping his shoes on and bending down to tie his laces. “See the office. All I’d need to do is introduce you to clients as a distant, older Nelson cousin. There’s enough of us, after all — even Ma and Pop have trouble keeping up with the family tree.”

Franklin drags the tines of his fork through the last few bites of scrambled egg on his plate.

“I’m sure it would be wonderful,” he says, in a tone Foggy recognizes as his own — the trying-to-say-no-politely voice he always used on his Ma when she tried to convince him to give up law for cured meats.

“But?” Foggy prods, because there obviously is one.

It draws a sad smile onto Franklin’s face.

“But I don’t know if I could handle meeting your Karen face-to-face, I’m sorry. At least not... Not so soon after learning about her. Our Karen, Matthew’s and mine, she’s been gone a long time but. It still hurts. And I don’t want your Karen to have to deal with that baggage, as admirably as I imagine she would.”

Foggy’s chest goes a little cold at the reminder, and he busies himself straightening the bows in his laces until he can get the feeling under control. Franklin and Matthew had both been so earnest and interested in stories of Foggy and Matt’s Karen that their reactions the first night had slipped from his mind a little. But of course it would be painful to meet her, to put a face to all their years-old what-ifs.

“I’m sorry. God I’m a dumbass, you both just seemed...”

“It’s fine. Really. I’ll spend the time doing a little research, see if Matthew wants to come over and help. We’ll make a day of it, you just worry about work.”

Franklin sounds fond, looks fond. But… Foggy knows himself, and that means he knows Franklin. There’s an aura around him now, a sad one. Something in the set of his mouth or the tension in his shoulders. Foggy stands up and can’t figure out what to do with his hands.

“You don’t have to...” He can’t bring himself to say ‘hide it’ but that’s what he means. “The reminder of her’s got to hurt.”

“We’re well-acquainted with having to hold ourselves together for other people’s sakes, you and I,” Franklin says knowingly, setting his mug on the table with a clack, “but this isn’t one of those times. I’m just old and wise and I know my limits — and Matthew’s for good measure, because god forbid he look after his own well-being.”

“Yeah,” Foggy sighs, because he knows a little something about that. “Yeah, no kidding. I’ll, uh, see you after work then?”

The answer he gets is a jerky nod.

“Give Karen a hug, though,” Franklin asks as Foggy turns to go; he’s looking down into his coffee, fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm against the mug. “For me?”

Foggy rubs the heel of his palm against his aching chest and considers how very lucky he is.

“Absolutely.”

* * *

Karen’s the first thing Foggy sees when he gets into the office. She’s wearing a soft-looking, flowy blouse and her hair is falling over her face as she tilts her head to compare the paper in her hand to whatever’s on her screen. She’s beautiful – like she always is. But maybe he appreciates it more, knowing that…

Foggy shakes off the melancholy of that thought.

“Karen!” he greets, and opens his arms for a hug – which is eagerly accepted.

“You’re in a good mood this morning,” says Karen, laughing a bit.

He squeezes her a little tighter, a little longer than he would normally. Closes his eyes and breathes in — flowery shampoo, something sweet and bright. She’s warm and real and alive in his arms, and he’s never gonna take that for granted again.

“Just happy to see you,” he manages to say, before pulling back and offering a more-than-likely wobbly smile.

There’s a knowing spark in her eyes, but she doesn’t ask. Which Foggy’s thankful for, because he’s promised not to lie to her again but he doesn’t know how hearing about the death of the other Karen would affect her.

“I’m happy to see you too,” she tells him, straightening his tie smartly. “Because I’m done picking up the slack for you, Mr. Nelson. We might have to replace you if this troubling habit of goofing off during work hours keeps up.”

“Me?” Foggy presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Why Ms. Page, how dare you. We all know it’s Mr. Murdock who really slacks off around here. You just can’t tell he’s reading newspaper articles about himself instead of depositions because he prints them off on the Braille printer.”

“I resent that,” comes a rough, exhausted voice from the other side of the office.

Foggy startles and looks over to see Matt leaning in his doorway. He’s not wearing his glasses, but Foggy’s not sure if it’s because he’s so tired or if it’s because he’s finally starting to really get comfortable with the three of them again – finally starting to truly consider the office a safe space. He hopes for the latter, but knows it could just as likely be the former.

Matt’s wearing his spare suit, the one he keeps tucked in his desk drawer for when he doesn’t have time to go home and change – Foggy can tell because the dress shirt is blue instead of his usual white ones. His hair’s a little messy, and he’s got circles under his eyes so dark you’d think someone had broken his nose, although thankfully he doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere. Foggy doubts the idiot slept a wink.

“Thought you were through pulling all-nighters,” he comments lightly, moving away towards his desk to shuffle his papers into a mockery of order.

“Extenuating circumstances,” parries Matt without hesitation, even as exhausted as he clearly is, and doesn’t elaborate.

Instead, he slips back into his own office and closes the door – noticeably harder than usual. Foggy and Karen share a look, but she seems just as baffled as he is.

The weird tension continues all morning, and leaves Foggy and Matt both fumbling a little at Ms. Tanaka’s meeting, which is absolutely unfair to her. Still, they push through somehow to start laying out their strategy for her defense, explain what she should wear to court, and reassure her that she’s going to be ok. They are professionals, after all. And Ms. Tanaka is a lovely woman who deserves their very best work.

Despite the obvious attempt to push through it, though, the stiffness of Matt’s posture only worsens as they approach noon. He steps far more heavily than usual, tosses his paperwork down instead of setting it neatly. Just little things, but Foggy’s known Matt long enough to realize those little signs are a warning to something much deeper going on below. Something that big deserves a bit of privacy, though — Foggy waits until Karen bows out for a lunch date that’s probably with Frank ‘incognito baseball cap’ Castle before he makes his way into Matt’s office.

“Just spit it out, Matt, whatever it is,” he says at last, though he’s beginning to worry that he actually doesn’t want to know.

There’s a few false starts, mouthed nonsense syllables as Matt gathers what he wants to say. Foggy hopes he’s so focused on that that he doesn’t hear the panicked flutter of Foggy’s heart but... It’s probably a stretch.

“Are you— Are you replacing me with him?” Matt asks, and Foggy can pick up on each individual strand of insecurity buried beneath Matt’s indignation. “With Matthew?”

The notion is patently absurd. No one can replace Matt, not even another version of him. Matthew is amazing, of course, but they can’t ever quite be to one another what their own Matt and Foggy are to them.

“Where is this coming from?” Foggy asks, because— what has he said or done today that could have possibly given Matt the indication that he’s bailing on him?

“You—“ Matt flings out a hand, shakes his head, paces — and then finally whirls on Foggy with his feet planted wide and his jaw clenched. “You kissed him.”

“How did you know?” Foggy asks like an idiot instead of trying to deny it.

“What do you think? I can  _smell_  him on you.”

Which is just about as horrifying an admission as Foggy had imagined it would be. He tugs at his hair, looking anywhere but at his best friend.

“Oh my god, Matt, I brushed my teeth!” he snaps as he tries and fails to bleed the embarrassment out of his body with pacing. “Do I need to freaking Listerene every time I kiss somebody just to get some privacy?”

Matt’s angry bark of laughter shatters against the office wall like glass.

“How about you just don’t kiss alternate universe versions of me at all and we’ll call it even? Jesus, Foggy, I thought we.” Matt rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated sound. “I thought we had an understanding.”

An understanding. As usual with the diplomatic phrasing, when what he means is ‘we don’t talk about your unrequited feelings for me so that our friendship stays functional’.

It’s all— mortifying. Very mortifying. And it’s not like Foggy’s an idiot, as soon as Matt had given even a half-assed explanation of his supersenses, Foggy had known what it meant. Matt’s always known about Foggy’s inconvenient feelings for him. And Foggy had waited — weeks, months, years — for Matt to bring it up, to... Well, reject him, basically. But Matt had continued on without a word. A tiny, hopeful part of Foggy had considered that maybe Matt didn’t know after all, but it was always a long shot. This roundabout acknowledgement is just the final nail in the coffin.

“He’s not you, though,” Foggy argues, although he knows his line of reasoning is weak. “I mean he is you but he’s not, he isn’t exactly you. And he kissed me first, ok, he wanted to. It’s not like I— I would  _never_  try to...”

Force him, force  _you_ , Foggy wants to finish, but the thought of doing something like that to anyone, let alone his best friend in the entire world, is so sick and abhorrent that he can’t get the words out. They stay there, lodged in his throat like a stone.

“But that’s just it! He’s not me. You don’t even know him, not really, you can’t possibly be in— It’s. You don’t have real feelings for  _him_.”

And— Ok, Matthew isn’t identical to Matt, but. But that doesn’t mean their connection isn’t real, either.

“What are you trying to say?” Foggy asks, and knows even as the words pass his lips that there’s no good answer to that question.

“That you just want a Matt Murdock who’ll kiss you,” spits Matt with an angry, nasty sort of smile that’s all teeth. “Who— who’ll have sex with you.”

The words hit like a slap. They twist the whole thing sideways and upside down like— like Foggy was just using Matthew, or like none of it was...

“That’s not fair, Matt,” Foggy says, trying hard to keep his tone sharp, to not let his voice waver despite the tears building behind his eyes. “You don’t get to— You  _know_  how I feel. And I don’t expect anything from you, I never have, isn’t that enough? Your friendship is more important to me than anything, but I can’t just— turn these feelings off, ok? If he— if he wants... And what we do as consenting adults isn’t any of your business anyway! It doesn’t mean I’m choosing him over you. You don’t get to accuse me of that.”

“Don’t I? If this—” Matt twirls a hand between them— “was enough for you, you wouldn’t have kissed him.”

Foggy’s control falters then, just for a second, and a tear slips down his cheek. He swipes it away hurriedly and clenches his jaw.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” he chokes out, though whether the words are to himself or Matt he doesn’t really know.

But when he turns to go, Matt catches his wrist firmly in one hand — careful, like always, not to hurt. Foggy kind of hates him for it. At least the physical pain would distract him from the emotional pain.

“Yes, you do. We don’t— I thought it was better to avoid this but clearly I.” Matt shakes his head. “I never wanted to hurt your feelings. And I’m sorry that I don’t feel... But, regardless, you can’t get involved with him.”

“Oh, I can’t, huh? And why is that? Just because you say so?”

A nerve ticks in Matt’s jaw at the impudent tone, but Foggy is so far beyond giving a shit about Matt’s need for unilateral control. In fact, Foggy actually has no idea what he’s feeling but it’s vibrating through him like a swarm of bees.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Matt says sharply. “He’s going to leave, you know that right? Go back to his own world and his own life. And he’s— too old for you anyway.”

Foggy rolls his eyes.

“He’s  _too old_  for me? Maybe if I was like— still in my twenties, but we’re both grown ass adults, Matt! I don’t need you trying to protect my virtue, I can sleep with whoever I want! And I’m sorry that it weirds you out, I really am, but if I want to bang Matthew six ways to Sunday there is frankly nothing you could do to stop me!”

The fact of the matter is that even though the sex would probably be phenomenal, Foggy’s not actually planning to storm out of the office and booty call his best friend’s alternate dimension double. First of all because he’s learned from his mistakes and he knows that working out his frustration with Matt through hookups is — while pleasurable — not mature or emotionally fulfilling, and Matthew deserves better than that anyway. Secondly, he’s pretty sure he’s going to start bawling his eyes out at any moment and there’s no way that’s at all sexy.

But Matt’s face goes deathly pale at the mere suggestion, and his mouth trembles. The already firm hold he has on Foggy’s wrist tightens and he yanks him closer, until they’re practically nose to nose.

“You’re. You’re right, Foggy, you are, but even if you try— Even if you try to use him as a replacement,” stammers Matt at last, voice low and hard, “we both know  _this_ —” Matt’s other palm thumps against Foggy’s chest, right over his pounding heart— “still belongs to  _me_.”

He stops there, but Foggy doesn’t need heightened senses to hear the implied ‘whether I want it or not’. And it’s true, but that’s not— It’s cruel of him, to rub it in like that. The sort of selfish, heedless cruelty that Matt usually doesn’t like to admit he can be good at. The kind Foggy thinks he might have Stick to thank for. It’s difficult to breathe, to swallow, but Foggy pushes past the lump in his throat and does it anyway.

“You’re a  _dick_ , Matt. Let go of me,” he snaps, and forces himself to find the strength to yank his arm out of Matt’s grip.

“Foggy,” Matt says warningly. “You’re not walking out, not this time.”

Even though he’s trembling from his head to his toes, Foggy manages to keep his stride even and his voice steady as he stalks towards the door to the office.

“And what are you going to do to stop me, Matt? Hit me? That’s how you solve all your problems, right? By hurting people?”

The sharp, pained noise those words pull from Matt’s lips is enough to send a stab of guilt through the remaining shards of Foggy’s heart. But he doesn’t stop, keeps going out the door and down the street and doesn’t look back, because if he does he knows he’ll break apart, and he’s already suffered enough humiliation in Matt’s presence for one day. He needs time. He needs to cool off and work through this on his own. He needs...

He needs someone with ten extra years of experience living his life.

* * *

“Good god!” Franklin yelps when Foggy slams the door to the apartment open.

Only then does Foggy come back to himself. It takes several deep breaths to steady himself, to scrub the tear tracks off his face and feel like a person again. Franklin is sitting on the couch, Foggy’s laptop open in front of him and several pages of scribbled notes scattered across the coffee table.

“Sorry.” Foggy runs a hand over his face. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t… Ugh.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Matthew’s not here, is he?” Foggy asks suddenly, fear swamping through him as he recalls Franklin’s plan of researching with Matthew for the day.

He doesn’t think he can handle anyone with that face right now.

“No, he’s out on the town about now, I think,” Franklin says with a chuckle. “Slacking off on the dull stuff as usual. He keeps saying we need to hurry up and find a way home but honestly... I think he needed this.” Franklin sighs, arching his spine in a stretch and resting his arms across the back of the couch. “He’s... Lighter, genuinely lighter than he’s been in a long time. I think meeting you and Matt has really perked him up.”

“Good, that’s.” Foggy nods absently. “That’s good.”

Franklin clears his throat.

“So,” he says, staring up at the ceiling instead of at Foggy. “You had a fight with Matt.”

Foggy’s shoulders slump.

“How did you know?”

“You’ve got that look about you. An aura of just-fought-with-Matt-ness, you might say. I know it well.”

The mix of amusement and care in his tone is pleasant. Just what Foggy needs. So when Franklin scoots over and gestures to the open space on the couch next to him, Foggy sits.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says at last, almost choking on the words. “I think. I think maybe this time… There might not be any way to put things back how they were.”

Their denial of Foggy’s idiot feelings was integral to keeping their friendship from turning into an awkward mess. Without it… Foggy can’t imagine how either of them will ever be able to interact comfortably again. Especially not after a fight like this.

“Can I tell you a story?” Franklin asks gently. “About Matthew and I?”

It can’t hurt, Foggy supposes.

“Sure. Go for it.”

“He hated me when we first met,” Franklin says with a sad little smile, and Foggy’s heart jolts in his chest. “I think _he_ thinks he hid it well, that I don’t know, but I’m... I know when people dislike me. I was used to it, I suppose. And Matty, well... He’s always led with his face; yours does too, right?”

Foggy nods silently, wets his lips and clears his throat.

“Yes. Yeah, he does.”

He and Franklin share a weak quirk of the lips, one that doesn’t quite make it to a smile and fades too quickly. Lacing his fingers together in his lap, Franklin looks down, sighs, and continues.

“My only high point was my academic skill,” he says, “or that’s how it felt sometimes; hard not to feel that way with a mother like Rosalind Sharpe, but I suppose maybe you know that too. I’m big and messy and loud. I snore and I like smelly foods and I’m prone to getting emotional over things. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for someone with enhanced senses, considering how much it irritated people without them. I certainly wasn’t the most considerate roommate, and to be honest I didn’t care that Matt hated me — he respected my intelligence and he couldn’t see how fat I was; for me that was good enough. My weight was still a sore subject for me then. Even now, when I’m relatively happy with my body, I can’t always shake it off — there’s always other people’s unhappiness trying to encroach. But that’s. I’m getting off topic. That isn’t really the point I wanted to make here.”

“Then what is?” Foggy wants to know.

The thought of Matt hating him — finding him gross or annoying or... It makes his stomach twist and his chest go cold. Had it been like that for him too, and he just hadn’t noticed...? Had Matt really...

“The point I wanted to make is that, at least in that regard, you two aren’t like us at all,” Franklin answers, reaching out a hand to squeeze Foggy’s shoulder. “From what Matt told me yesterday, your friendship was nearly instantaneous. Which is proof that just because we’re the same people it doesn’t mean we’re identical. You don’t have that baggage in your relationship, and I’m glad. But even if you did? Look at Matthew and I. Even after that, we became friends. He saved me, gave me the confidence and the courage to save myself. And all these years later, through everything, we’re still here. So the two of you...” Franklin pulls back to run a hand through his own hair and exhales heavily. “Look, it won’t always be easy, or nice, or happy — that’s life for you. But no matter the differences between us or the troubles you face, there’s nothing in the world — in _any_ world — that could keep Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson apart forever. I believe that with my whole heart.”

“Nothing...?”

To Foggy’s credit, his voice doesn’t waver — but the fragility he’s feeling must show on his face because Franklin’s expression goes soft and comforting.

“Nothing. We’re like magnets. Pull us apart all you want, we’ll spring back together in the end.”

“Some people might call that soulmates,” murmurs Foggy, although the words burn his tongue as he speaks them.

Something in his face seems to give Franklin pause. He tilts his head down a little to get a better look at Foggy’s expression, and inhales sharply.

“You’re in love with Matt.”

“Pretty much,” Foggy agrees, because he’s done hiding it and he needs advice desperately.

Maybe Franklin hasn’t had this exact argument with Matthew, but it seems like the two of them have fought and reconciled a lot. Possibly even over something as deeply humiliating as this. Franklin’s got a very even keel, he knows how to deal with Matt, so he has to have some good advice for what Foggy should do.

Except, after almost two minutes of contemplative silence, the conversation veers suddenly off-course.

“Am  _I_  in love with Matt?” Franklin demands, voice pitched up nearly half an octave.

Foggy flounders, admittedly – he’d kind of been expecting to be able to get into the details of his whole ‘Matt knows I’m in love with him and we fought about it’ thing. Not to accidentally jump-start his double’s bisexual awakening, or whatever is happening to Franklin as his face goes pale as a sheet.

“Uhh,” Foggy stammers. “W-well…”

Franklin jolts to his feet, brown hair swishing and eyes a little wild, and stumbles away from the couch.

“Oh my god, I am. I’m in love with Matt,” he says, clutching his hands to his head as he paces. “Oh my god. I’m  _in love_  with  _Matt_.”

Foggy’s... Not really sure why it requires a crisis. If Franklin is anything like himself, then given the extra decade between their ages he’s probably been in love with Matthew for like twenty years. Has he truly not realized it until this very moment?

“I mean, yeah, probably?” Foggy answers at last, still not really sure how to respond to his older doppelganger’s mental breakdown.

“But I’m not gay,” Franklin says almost plaintively. “Or I don’t think I am...! Am I gay? I like women, I do, I had a _wife_ —”

Which is what finally knocks Foggy out of his haze of bafflement and into what is apparently his new role: instructing Franklin in the ways of gay.

“Dude. Has literally no one ever told you that ‘both’ was an option? It’s called being bisexual. Which I am.”

That, at least, gets Franklin to stop his pacing, although it doesn’t ease the furrow in his brow.

“Bisexual,” he says slowly, like he’s feeling the word out.

“Yeah, I mean, there are other labels I guess, but that’s the one I’ve always liked,” explains Foggy. “You don’t have to choose between your attraction to different genders, is the thing. People always try to fit you into a box, like, ‘are you gay or are you straight’, but sometimes the answer is neither. And that’s ok. It’s… Kind of great, actually, once you stop worrying about what other people think about it – just being yourself.”

The lost expression on Franklin’s face reminds Foggy, with a kind of heartbreaking déjà vu, of Matt. The sort of looks he would get at Columbia in those first few months, whenever Foggy offered even the most basic of friendly gestures. Gently, Foggy takes Franklin by the arm and leads him back over to the couch to rest while his brain works through an epiphany that’s several decades in the making.

“But,” Franklin says at last, “I’m so boring. I mean, I’m not… I’m not cool, or flashy or… Do I even have the temperament to be…?”

“You can be boring and queer, the two have nothing to do with each other,” Foggy soothes, puzzled. “But like, also you’re a kick-ass lawyer who beat cancer and is best friends with a literal superhero so I’m not entirely sure you have an accurate self-image.”

“Ha.” Franklin smiles, shakes his head. “Yes, maybe so. But maybe… Maybe that’s not what I really meant.”

Foggy shrugs.

“Well. Take your time, try and articulate it.”

They sit together in silence for a minute or two before Franklin speaks again.

“It’s really… It’s the whole, you know, _image_. With the—” Franklin twirls a hand aimlessly. “Oh, like the long hair you had in college, and all that. That’s never been me. You’re different, it... It suits you, you look like you could be.” He clears his throat. “Bisexual.”

Foggy blinks, tries to wrap his head around that. He’s never thought of himself as looking particularly not-straight — not in the gorgeous, almost militant fashion of lesbians with brightly colored hair, say — but...

“Yeah,” he concedes at last, slowly, letting the words roll around in his head. “I guess? But just like it’s got nothing to do with being interesting, you don’t have to be flamboyant or look a certain way either. Just by having feelings for Matt you fulfill the definition, that’s literally all that’s required. You’re thinking way, way too hard about this.” After a pause, he bumps Franklin’s shoulder with his own. “Which in my world usually means it’s about time to go drink cheap, unidentifiable booze.”

“You have really unhealthy coping mechanisms,” Franklin points out, and the look on his face has finally softened.

“The world has almost ended like five times in the last ten years. When I go out, it’s not gonna be the alcohol poisoning that gets me.”

* * *

The two of them end up at Josie’s, where Franklin somehow charms Josie into giving him _actual whiskey_ from a bottle with an _actual label_ , instead of whatever nail-polish moonshine she normally offers to anybody foolish enough to ask for alcohol by name. Foggy’s not the one whose world has just shifted under him, even if he is upset, so he just gets a beer and settles in next to Franklin at the bar. His older double is surprisingly taciturn – brooding silently until he makes it about halfway through his second drink.

“Suddenly all those times I couldn’t look away from Thor’s arms make so much more sense now,” Franklin says numbly, shaking his head. “Oh god, I’m so stupid.”

“Eh.” Foggy’s been there, done that – he got all that agonizing over his own obliviousness out of the way in high school, thankfully. “It’s the heteronormativity. You just kinda… Assume. Especially when you’re bi. It’s no big. Really.”

“Still, it’s humiliating. And the worst part is,” sighs Franklin, staring morosely down at the glass between his hands, “when it comes to Matt, I was out of the running before I even knew I wanted to be in it.”

“Uh... I... Wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Foggy says delicately, which only prompts an insulting snort from his doppelganger.

“Come on, now. It’s Matt. I mean I— I’ve never once doubted he loved me since we became best friends, but there’s no way he’s  _in_  love with me. The kind of women he dates — hell, the kind of woman he _married_ — I’m nothing like that.”

And ok, maybe he’s not. But Matthew wants him anyways, and Franklin deserves to know it.

“Look, I’m telling you, there’s nothing to worry about. I, uh.” Foggy clears his throat, suddenly aware of how weird the words he’s planning to say truly are. “Er. He might have, uh, made out with me. Yesterday. And I’m just a bizarro world version of you, so I’d say your odds are pretty good. He’s in love with you. You’re the one of us that can live the dream, here, and you should absolutely go for it.”

“Last night,” Franklin realizes suddenly. “That was, _you and he_ — I thought he’d just goaded you into taking him somewhere scandalous, like a strip club!”

Foggy pulls a face he tends to save for awkward situations. This one absolutely applies.

“Surprise…?” There’s enough heat creeping up the back of his neck that Foggy takes a long swig of cold beer to try and fight it down – not that that helps much, except to continue loosening his tongue. “But hey! Like I said! You’re all set, dude, you just have to tell Matthew you like him back.”

Instead of excitement, the response Foggy gets is a skeptical noise. He’s not sure whether to feel a little sad for Franklin or to feel offended that he apparently doesn’t think Foggy’s believable. But before he can gear up for any real indignation, Franklin speaks again.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It… Seems pretty simple to me.”

Franklin rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look particularly annoyed.

“That’s because you don’t know about Kirsten,” he retorts.

Which isn’t technically true. Foggy’s heard about Kirsten, a little. She was Matthew’s girlfriend for a while. But he’s pretty sure Franklin mentioned they broke up a while back during the whole ‘dimension-wide amnesia that Matt is Daredevil’ thing, so he doesn’t have a clue how she’s supposed to factor into Franklin refusing to accept the happiness life is trying to thrust upon him or whatever.

“What about her?” Foggy says, figuring he might as well bite the bullet and ask. “I thought she forgot Matthew was Daredevil and they went their separate ways.”

“She did. It’s just… No matter what he might feel for me, Matt _loves_ Kirsten. They were good for each other, and Kirsten McDuffie is no fool. Matt might have pushed her away, but she’ll be back eventually. She’ll figure him out again, break down his walls again. And I don’t...” Franklin lets out a shuddering sigh that makes Foggy’s heart squeeze with pain. “I don’t want to get in the middle of that. They’re my friends. And, frankly, I just don’t want to find out whether it would be more painful to have him choose me over her or have him choose her over me.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says like he knows the feeling, although he doesn’t.

His only recent competition for Matt has been Elektra – who was absolutely not good for Matt by any stretch of the imagination, for all that she also very absolutely had his heart – and Karen, who’s apparently got Frank now. So it’s not like he’s got good-hearted rivals waiting in the wings or anything, no one that he would be willing to step aside for because he thought they’d be better for Matt than him, or at least good enough for Matt that they deserved a chance. He’s not sure he’s selfless enough that he would step aside so gracefully even then, although he understands where Franklin is coming from. But then, it’s not like his own Matt even wants him anyway, not the way Matthew wants Franklin. Which kind of makes his lack of rivals a moot point.

“So.” Franklin claps his hands together briskly. “We know why I’m not getting into a relationship with my Matt, but why can’t you with yours? I mean, if my Matt is... Then shouldn’t yours also be...?”

If only. Foggy offers up a halfhearted attempt at a grin that he’s pretty sure they both know is only seconds from shattering.

“I... I don’t think it works that way. My Matt’s...” He has to swallow past a lump in his throat to keep talking. “Um, he... He already knows, how I feel about him and he’s, uh, made his position on _that_ pretty clear. Which was actually the subject of our fight today.”

Franklin winces sympathetically.

“I’m sorry. That’s… That sounds horrible.” Franklin turns his glass slowly on the bar counter and refuses to meet Foggy’s eyes. “I suppose it must seem like I’m throwing away exactly what you want.”

But it’s… That really wasn’t Foggy’s point. He offers a smile, more genuine this time, helped along by the alcohol starting to work its way through his bloodstream.

“No, I get it, man. Matthew’s your best friend, and you just want him to be happy. I can’t fault you for that.”

It’s something they share. Even now, when he’s pissed off at him, Foggy just wants Matt to be happy. And it’d be nice if that meant… But it doesn’t. And that’s fine! It’s fine. He just wishes Matt would be a little more understanding about the temptation Matthew represents, a little more sensitive with Foggy’s heart.

“You fought about your feelings for Matt,” Franklin muses into his whiskey, still looking troubled. “And the fact that you kissed my… Kissed Matthew. That can’t have… I’m sure Matt said some things that really hurt you.”

“I said a few things I’m not proud of either,” Foggy admits, which earns him a commiserative huff of dry laughter.

“Isn’t that the way it always goes. But you’ll make up, in the end. I know you will. Like I told you before. Magnets.”

Franklin tries to knock his fingertips together to prove his point, but seems to forget he’s holding a glass in one hand. His drink nearly sloshes over onto the table. Buoyed just a bit by the spectacle, Foggy steadies him with a laugh, and waves off Josie’s unimpressed look.

“Still gonna sulk in the meantime,” he says blithely. “Matt can apologize first, because that’s what happens when you’re a dick. You have to apologize first.”

Franklin shakes his head, but his mouth is turned up in a grin. After too short a time, it drops away.

“God. This is all bullshit,” he mutters, rubbing his free hand over his mouth.

“ _Life_ is bullshit,” offers Foggy, raising his bottle, and it’s wry and painful but it’s the only toast he can think up.

“Cheers,” Franklin agrees with a sharp laugh, and taps his whiskey against Foggy’s beer with a clack of glass.


	5. I Wanna Start a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt fights with Foggy and fights with Matthew and maybe gets a little sense knocked into him.

The truth of it is, Matt wouldn’t even notice Matthew’s scent on Foggy if he hadn’t smelled Foggy on Matthew the previous night. Foggy had brushed his teeth and showered, after all. And the minty, cloying smell of toothpaste and the bright, fruity scent of Foggy’s soap could both cover a hell of a lot. But Matthew had strolled into Matt’s apartment without a care in the world, not even trying to hide it. Foggy and arousal and sweat. Matt stayed out all night to avoid him, to avoid thinking about Matthew’s mouth, warm and experienced, on Foggy’s. Not that it worked.

He’d stumbled into the office exhausted and restless, waved off Karen’s worry, changed into his spare work clothes, and spent the next twenty minutes with his office door closed, pacing as he tried to deny what his senses had told him.

And then Foggy comes through the door, a spring in his step and the faintest whiff of Matthew on him, and Matt — shudders, goes cold and angry. How could— How could either of them do this? Foggy is _Matt’s_. If Matthew wants to irrevocably fuck up the friendship between Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson, then he has his own Foggy to kiss. And Foggy... Matt had thought Foggy was so in control of himself, so disciplined and determined to preserve their friendship, but apparently the second he and Matthew were left alone all that supposed control dissolved. Didn’t he even think? Didn’t he realize there would be no going back from this?

Or is it worse than that? Matt’s stomach twists violently as he considers that maybe Foggy’s planning to go back to Matthew’s world with him.

He’s able to stave it off as he listens to Karen and Foggy joke around, and even joins in a little, but. It doesn’t stay contained. He slips, a fraction, when Foggy questions him about his night, and has to hide away in his office again. He still doesn’t know how he wants to broach the topic of what Foggy and Matthew... Have done, or. Or plan on doing in the future.

Ms. Tanaka’s meeting definitely suffers for it, but at least Matt had taken copious notes last week in preparation. They manage to keep him at least reasonably on track and out of his own head.

When it’s over, though, there’s nothing to distract him from thoughts of Matthew and Foggy. From the tangle of ugly feelings itching under his skin. Foggy can tell. Foggy’s always been able to tell. Even when he didn’t know about the senses or about Daredevil, Foggy’s always known about Matt’s anger. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to hide completely.

And how like Foggy — perceptive, considerate, kind — to wait until they’re alone to push for answers. Matt... Matt wants answers of his own. So it doesn’t take much to have it all spilling out of him.

“Are you— Are you replacing me with him? With Matthew?” he asks, because that’s the thought that hurts the worst.

That Foggy’s going to decide that Matthew is Matt Murdock enough for him — an idealized, better version of Matt, who’s never hurt him, who’s willing to kiss him and maybe even. Even... Matt swallows, tries to force down the hot, squirming feeling low in his gut.

“Where is this coming from?” Foggy asks, sounding mystified.

“You—” The words get caught in Matt’s throat; he gestures a hand, shakes his head, but there’s nothing for it but to say it plain. “You kissed him.”

Foggy’s heart jolts in his chest. Caught. Guilty.

“How did you know?” he asks.

As if he didn’t expect Matt to find out. As if he thought Matthew would go out of his way to hide it too. Matt’s not cruel enough to tell Foggy that Matthew was practically flaunting their little— tryst.

“What do you think? I can  _smell_  him on you,” he answers, because he can and he wishes to God he couldn’t.

 _Foggy probably wishes you couldn’t either_ , adds a wry corner of Matt’s mind. And that detached part of him is what catalogues all the little tells that Foggy’s embarrassed. The wash of heat radiating from his skin, the scent of sweat in the air, his pounding heart. But there’s no apology or explanation forthcoming. Only that embarrassment, only Foggy’s usual mortified ranting, supplemented with the frantic click of his shoes on the floor of the office.

“I thought we had an understanding,” Matt tells Foggy at last, frustrated.

He knows his words are the wrong ones even as they leave his mouth. Knows he’s digging into the soft, vulnerable places of Foggy’s heart — pouring salt in wounds he’s never wanted to exist in the first place. But Foggy doesn’t back down the way Matt needs him to, doesn’t promise he won’t kiss Matthew again. He tries to argue that it’s ok because Matthew isn’t Matt, not really — as if that makes it all fine. And it’s not— fair. It isn’t  _fair_ , because they only just met Matthew and Franklin two days ago, Foggy can’t be in love with Matthew already. He  _can’t_. Matt keeps pushing until everything breaks. Until the accusation festering deepest in his heart spills out.

“That you just want a Matt Murdock who’ll kiss you,” he seethes, and there’s some victory in it — in the viciousness of it, in having the trump card. “Who— who’ll have sex with you.”

Foggy doesn’t get to, to be embarrassed or angry at Matt when he’s the one being so callous, when he’s the one throwing Matt away just because Matthew can kiss him when Matt can’t.

“That’s not fair, Matt,” Foggy says, pained; the hurt in his voice breaks through to Matt where the anger hadn’t. “You don’t get to— You  _know_  how I feel. And I don’t expect anything from you, I never have, isn’t that enough?” And maybe it had been, but it’s not anymore, not enough for Foggy to hold back his feelings in front of Matt, not if he’s going to indulge them behind Matt’s back with Matthew. “Your friendship is more important to me than anything, but I can’t just— turn these feelings off, ok? If he— if he wants...” There’s a long-hidden, aching longing in Foggy’s voice that tugs at Matt’s heartstrings, though the tone is quickly covered again by indignation. “And what we do as consenting adults isn’t any of your business anyway! It doesn’t mean I’m choosing him over you. You don’t get to accuse me of that.”

“Don’t I?” Matt demands, because how else is he supposed to take it? “If this was enough for you, you wouldn’t have kissed him.”

How can it be anything but an insult to the importance of their friendship? Anything but Foggy admitting that he’s not satisfied with what they have, what Matt’s able to give him?

Matt’s so caught up in his own hurt that he almost doesn’t hear what Foggy says next.

“—don’t have to listen to this,” he’s saying roughly, moving towards the doors.

But they can’t leave it like this. They can’t. Matt needs to... He needs Foggy, and even if he’s trying not to, Foggy needs Matt. So Matt steps forward, grasps Foggy’s wrist. His skin is soft under Matt’s fingertips, plush and unblemished, as much of a tactile comfort as Matt’s silk sheets. The familiar, soothing sensation is enough to soften Matt’s rough edges, to smooth his ruffled feathers.

“Yes, you do,” he tells Foggy, as gently as he can. “We don’t—” _ever talk about this_ , Matt thinks and discards. “I thought it was better to avoid this, but clearly I.”

 _Was wrong_ , he thinks, though he can’t force the words out; doesn’t want this to be about that. About how they might have handled all of this. Making this conversation a reminder of just how long Matt’s known how Foggy feels about him, the feelings he’d tried so hard to keep secret, is a surefire way to hurt Foggy more, to make him clam up in humiliation.

“I never wanted to hurt your feelings,” Matt says instead, because at least that’s the honest truth. “And I’m sorry that I don’t feel...” _I wish I could_ , he thinks, but keeps it to himself because saying it would be cruel. “But, regardless, you can’t get involved with him.”

Foggy’s heart, which had been settling, ratchets up again at the last sentence.

“Oh, I can’t, huh?” he wants to know, tone defiant. “And why is that? Just because you say so?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” insists Matt. “He’s going to leave, you know that right? Go back to his own world and his own life.”

It isn’t as if Matt wants Foggy to have to deal with the heartbreak Matthew leaving will bring on, any more than he wants to have to witness it. And Matt’s— grasping at straws here because none of it is working. Nothing is convincing Foggy to stop, none of it seems to be a good enough reason for him, and is he really that far gone for Matthew already?

“And he’s— too old for you anyway,” he adds in a last-ditch attempt to knock some common sense into his best friend.

Foggy’s scorn is a physical thing, a miasma hanging thick in the air. It’s in the composition of the hormones he’s giving off, in his short, irritated breaths.

“He’s  _too old_  for me? Maybe if I was like— still in my twenties, but we’re both grown ass adults, Matt! I don’t need you trying to protect my virtue, I can sleep with whoever I want!” Foggy argues right back — scoldingly, like Matt’s the one out of line here. “And I’m sorry that it weirds you out, I really am, but if I want to bang Matthew six ways to Sunday there is frankly nothing you could do to stop me!”

Foggy’s never been shy when talking about sex — the sex he’s having or the sex anyone else is. It was something that had been a bit of a shock to a boy who spent half his life supervised by nuns, but that frankness was also something he’d always liked about Foggy. This is the first time it’s made him feel shaky and ill.

Blood roaring in his ears, Matt uses his grip on Foggy to tug him closer so there’s no misunderstanding, no distance to hide from each other.

“You’re. You’re right, Foggy, you are,” Matt grits out, wants to say  _no one’s ever been able to control you_ , “but even if you try—” The words choke him, but Matt’s determined to get them into the open air. “Even if you try to use him as a replacement, we both know  _this_ ,” he slaps a hand down over Foggy’s wildly beating heart, “belongs to  _me_.”

Because it  _does_ , because it has almost as long as they’ve known each other, because if Foggy thinks he can try to shift that need, that love, to anyone else — even Matthew — he’s  _wrong_. It’s Matt’s. It belongs to him even if he can’t indulge it or return it, even if he’s never acknowledged it in an attempt to spare Foggy’s feelings. Thinking about Foggy having, having—  _Sleeping with_  Matthew, makes Matt’s stomach flip and his chest squeeze, but even if Foggy does go through with it the truth is that he’s doing it because he wants to sleep with  _Matt_. And Matt isn’t going to let him sidestep that. Not anymore.

The heart under his hand stutters.

“You’re a  _dick_ , Matt. Let go of me,” Foggy chokes out, pulling away.

Matt could hold him in place, but the sudden and ominous shift in Foggy’s body startles him enough that he doesn’t react in time. Foggy’s breathing is shallow and the heat his anger and embarrassment gave off is gone like it was never there, replaced with a furious chill. Every sense Matt has is telling him that Foggy is fine, healthy, but his body is reacting strongly enough that it mimics the response to a physical injury.

He’s only ever shut down like this once before, in Matt’s memory. The day he walked out the door after finding out Matt was Daredevil. And he can’t— He can’t do that. Not again, he can’t.

“Foggy. You’re not walking out,” insists Matt, and he’s only just barely able to keep his tone angry instead of fearful, “not this time.”

“And what are you going to do to stop me, Matt?” Foggy asks, his voice terribly flat and hard. “Hit me? That’s how you solve all your problems, right? By hurting people?”

The words connect like a blow to the face, and before Matt can collect himself a pained noise escapes past his teeth. The door slams shut with a deafening bang. Trembling, Matt tracks Foggy’s progress out of the building, down the street, until he’s swallowed up by the city.

Matt loses sense of time as he tries to get his breathing and his racing heart under control. It seems like only a few minutes later that Karen returns, although he can smell food on her breath so he knows it must have been long enough for her to eat — halfway across town, if the particular blend of peanut sauce he’s getting off her is any indication.

“Matt...?” Karen’s hair swishes as she looks around. “Are you ok...? Where’s Foggy?”

“He’s.” Matt drags in a shaky breath. “He’s gone. He. He left.”

“Another fight?” Karen diagnoses, clearly upset. “I was only gone an hour, what the hell happened?”

But he doesn’t want to talk about it. Can’t bear to tell her. So Matt just shakes his head.

Karen sighs loudly, but with two clicking, high-heeled steps she’s pulled him into her arms. For a minute she just holds him, and Matt presses his face to her shoulder, clutches at the back of her blouse.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Just go. I’ll close up here. And please, _please_ fix it before you two have to come in for work tomorrow or I’m taking a PTO day because I am  _not_  going to sit through one of your bullshit Cold War fights.”

* * *

Matt leaves the office as instructed, but he doesn’t have a destination in mind. He’s... Afraid to go to Foggy’s apartment, to find out what’s waiting for him there. Because there’s a small, terrified part of him that wonders if there even is anything left to fix. Foggy’s obviously chosen Matthew, has discarded Matt, and—

But no. No, Foggy’s heart had beat true when he said there was nothing more important to him than Matt’s friendship, he reminds himself, tightening his grip on his cane. It had. Maybe someone else could trick their way past Matt’s senses, but Matt knows Foggy better than anyone. Those words were honest, even if they ached. And Foggy had always been so good about it, before all this. Discreet, kind, never asking for more, never even _hinting_ at wanting more except in the ways he couldn’t hide from Matt. There had been a balance, a status quo. Everything would have been fine, if Matthew had never shown up.

It‘s  _his_  fault, Matt realizes suddenly. Sweeping in with his, his charm and experience and—  _kissing_  Foggy like he has any right to. Foggy would have been happy as friends, wouldn’t have tried to seek out what Matt can’t give him — because there wouldn’t have been another Matt to choose over him. That’s it, that‘s all Matthew has in his favor, the fact that he‘s Matt Murdock. Because Matt knows that Foggy would never choose anyone that wasn’t — he’s tried, with Marci, with Karen, with any number of other people, but he always comes back to Matt in the end. And if Matthew had just kept his mouth to himself, everything would have stayed as it was. Matt and Foggy wouldn’t have fought. Foggy wouldn’t have left.

But Matt won’t— he won’t let it end like this. Matthew might be swaying Foggy for the moment but it’s Matt that he’s really in love with. It’s Matt that he’s been in love with for ten years. Matthew already has Franklin, he doesn’t get to take Foggy too.

Matt’s feet lead him towards home, and the cause of all his current problems.

* * *

He can hear the flickering echo of Matthew’s heartbeat when he’s still a block away from the apartment. It’s steady. At ease. Heartbeats can’t sound smug, but Matt’s anger colors Matthew’s heartbeat that way. There’s no jolt of surprise or realization in Matthew’s pulse, so either his senses are better than Matt’s or he’s been anticipating this fight — neither is a particularly thrilling option. Still, Matt’s set on his course, so there’s nothing for it but to keep going. Jaw clenched tightly, shoulders squared, he makes his way into the building, up the stairs, and unlocks the door with trembling hands.

“Welcome home,” greets Matthew when Matt passes the entryway, and his voice is so pleasant that it’s irritating. “You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“We need to talk,” Matt growls, stepping further into the room.

A strange stutter in Matthew’s heart, a shift in the room’s air currents as he flinches, throws Matt off.

“That perfume,” Matthew says. “Karen?”

“I.” Matt, having lost the thread of the argument he intended to begin, can only answer honestly. “Yes.”

There’s a soft, weak huff of laughter.

“They wear the same scent,” Matthew explains, and his voice breaks a little. “All these years later, I can still recognize it.”

A sick chill crawls its way through Matt’s veins. He can’t imagine losing Karen — or, he can, but he prefers to leave it to his night terrors. Matt’s not normally a superstitious person, not really, but especially after learning about her death in Matthew’s world it seems like it would jinx it to think about something horrible happening to his own Karen. She throws herself headlong into danger without a single flinch, so it’s always a possibility, but Matt’s determined to keep his friends safe and as much as he disapproves of Frank’s methods Matt also trusts that he would die before he let anyone hurt Karen.

“Oh.”

Of all the things to be the same between their worlds, he wishes this wasn’t one of them. Sure, Matt’s angry, but… Scent is already strongly connected to memory, and with their enhanced noses… Matt’s honestly surprised that Matthew’s taking it as well as he is. After a minute or two of silence, of shuddering breaths, Matthew’s heart and his body even out. It’s a level of control Matt’s certain he himself doesn’t have yet.

“I think I stole your thunder a little,” Matthew says, standing up from the couch with a stretch that elicits several small pops. “You’re here about Foggy, I’m guessing?”

And just like that, with that smug tone, it all comes rushing back. Matt’s heart is slamming angrily against his rib cage, and his blood is thrumming so harshly in his veins that he actually feels a little lightheaded. But he forces his stance into something firm, plants his feet and blocks the exit so that his double has nowhere to run.

“Stay away from him,” Matt orders, all but spitting the words past clenched teeth.

“Or what?” Matthew drawls, pacing the room slowly with his back to Matt like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Gonna come at me with your fists? I’ve been Daredevil ten years longer than you.”

“Yeah, I can hear the way all your joints creak,” mocks Matt.

He takes a step forward, and Matthew turns. They both fall into loose, ready posture — not quite fighting stances, but close.

“I expected you to say something last night,” Matthew admits, and it’s enough to goad Matt into kicking out at him. “What brought on this sudden temper, exactly?”

The kick doesn’t connect, but neither does Matthew’s attempt at a leg sweep. Duck, duck, punch, block— there’s a clatter as the coffee table gets knocked on its side.

“He left! We fought and he left, all because  _you_ —“

“Me?” demands Matthew, ducking another punch and then side vaulting over the couch. “Listen, I know myself pretty well by now, which means I know you pretty well too. You picked a fight with him, didn’t you, Matt? And that’s not on me.”

“Yes, it is! If you hadn’t, hadn’t flaunted it…! Because of you, everything we’ve been able to leave alone, leave unsaid— I can’t love him like that! Because of you, I had to say things that. Things that hurt him!”

“He gave as good as he got, I imagine,” says Matthew. “But I never made you do anything.”

He didn’t— force Matt to do it at gunpoint, no, but it was the only option after Matthew had… It was the only option. And it hurt. And it still hurts. Matt knows he’s giving in to his darker instincts, but he wants Matthew to hurt too. Wants him on the floor. To that end, he goes for the flip he learned from Matthew the night before last.

“You’re going to fight me with a move I just taught you?” Matthew asks incredulously, and pulls some flexible maneuver that knocks Matt flat on his ass. “Cute.”

Baring his teeth, Matt struggles to his elbows. Matthew makes no attempt to lash out, to knock him back down the way Stick would, and his placidity is infuriating and unnerving in equal measure. Still, he’s not going to squander an opportunity, so he rolls forward and springs back to his feet.

“What were you thinking?!” he demands, lashing out again.

Matthew grabs him by the ankle when he kicks upwards, but just shoves him back instead of tossing him.

“I was thinking I wanted to kiss him.”

The answer is so— simplistic. So matter-of-fact. The world doesn’t work that way. People don’t just get to kiss Foggy because they want to, and especially not Matthew – not when Matt’s not allowed to. It isn’t, it’s not fair.

“That’s not enough!” Matt snaps at him.

“Well, I suppose in a technical sense you’re right,” muses Matthew as he takes two fluid steps backwards. “But he wanted to kiss me too, if that’s what you’re worried about, so it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! You went behind my back, and. And you didn’t even _ask me_ —!”

“Oh yes, please, I’m  _begging_  you, cast yourself as Jesus in those ‘myth of consensual sex’ memes. It’ll make my day,” laughs Matthew; he skids across the floor and twists to avoid another hit, knocking into one of the armchairs but not quite upending it. “Look, kiddo, unless we’re starting a ménage à trois, whether I kiss him or not has nothing to do with you.”

“It does when you’re just— using my best friend!” Matt presses his advantage, slides forward to try and bury a fist in Matt’s gut. “He’s not even in love with you, you know! Not really! You hardly know each other—”

Matthew dives to the side, rolls back to his feet, and manages to come up behind Matt, pulling him into a chokehold. Though he struggles, kicks out, nothing connects. It’s like their fight the first night all over again.

“Why are you really warning me off him?” asks Matthew, locking his arms tighter around Matt to hold him in place. “Your logic is jumping all over the place; Foggy and I can’t both be the victim. What is it you’re really angry about, here, Matt?”

“He’s mine!” Matt insists as he continues to struggle to break out of Matthew’s grip, and then falters, cringes at the way he sounds — whiny, immature, like a kid scared someone will take away their favorite toy. “He’s. He’s my best friend, you can’t— You can’t take him, he belongs here and, and you already have a Foggy, you can’t— You can’t—”

“ _Of course_  I can’t,” Matthew replies, sounding exasperated.

“I.” Startled, Matt forgets to keep fighting and sags a little in Matthew’s arms. “But. You...”

“It’s not like I could just trade with you,” says Matthew. “I mean. Your Foggy’s great. He’s hilarious and sweet and loyal and brave, but... He’s not _my_ Foggy. I can’t just trade out my best friend for his alternate universe double, Matt, that’s ridiculous. Do we have a connection? Yes. Did we decide a little bit of necking might be nice considering the once in a lifetime opportunity? Of course we did. But my Foggy will always be the one who’s looked after me for half our lives despite his better judgment. The one who knows me best, who holds me accountable. The one who belongs with me. Franklin is my Foggy, for better or worse, even if he could never love me the way I want him to. It couldn’t be any other way, and Foggy knows that. He’s a smart guy. I know for a fact he feels the same way about you. Jesus, the way he talked about you, Matt... You’d be ashamed of accusing him like this if you could hear the way he went on and on about you. We were just... Just giving each other a little taste of wish fulfillment.”

Matt shakes his head, because it’s not... It isn’t that simple. It can’t be.

“But now he knows what that’s like,” he points out, “and he’ll want it! He won’t. He won’t be happy with what we have. He’ll be pining away after you!”

“I’m flattered,” Matthew replies with some amusement, “although I’m sure _he_ wouldn’t be if he knew that’s what you thought of him. But honestly what I want to know is why that option bothers you more than him pining away after  _you_. I’d think you’d be relieved. If Foggy shifted focus wouldn’t it solve all your problems?”

“Not if he leaves me!”

Matthew shakes him a little, lets out an annoyed huff.

“He’s coming back, you idiot. Can’t you trust that by now? He always comes back. But, you know, there’s a more obvious reason why this bothers you so much.”

Matt’s already stated his reasons. There aren’t any others, and he makes it pretty clear what he thinks of Matthew’s speculating with a derisive,

“ _What_?”

All it earns him is a barefooted kick to the back of his shin.

“Matt,” Matthew says, gesturing flamboyantly with one arm in a wide sweep of air while the other stays in a loose but unbreakable chokehold across Matt’s collarbone. “I’m gonna give you a little helpful advice. One Daredevil to another. If you were straight, you’d only be weirded out by this. You wouldn’t be angry.”

The words hit like a punch to the throat, leave Matt gasping.

“Wh—  _What_...?”

“Did that not translate? You’re not uncomfortable, but you’re definitely jealous. You have some  _gay feelings_ , Matthew. You want to suck your best friend’s dick. You want to go out and buy him a wedding ring. Which you should absolutely do. Preferably before either of you gets married to someone else. Save you a hell of a lot in alimony. But maybe make up from this spat first.”

“I don’t,” Matt wheezes. “I’m not, I... I’m not gay. I. Elektra, and—”

“And Foggy, your Foggy—” Matt tries to ignore the wash of possessive warmth through his veins at the words— “is pretty openly bi. Come on, Matty. You know it’s not just A or B. You’re not fooling anyone but yourself. Trust me, denial is not the way to go with this.”

The words definitely resonate. They feel right, inescapably so. But they’re not... He’s not... He can’t be. He’s never kissed a guy before, like Foggy has. He never feels like flirting with any of the men Karen and Foggy say are hot. And he’s never questioned it before — doesn’t that mean he can’t be? Wouldn’t someone who wasn’t straight have _thought_  maybe they weren’t by now? So he can’t be.

“Maybe _you_ are,” he tells his double. “But there are, there are other things about us that are different too. I’m. I’m straight, I’ve always been straight.”

Matthew’s hold on him slackens, then, and Matt ducks out of it. Puts space between them again. There’s a soft brush of air as Matthew reaches out an arm, but he drops it before his fingertips reach Matt’s shoulder.

“Look,” says Matthew firmly. “It’s tough, reevaluating your life like this. But let me just... Let me prove it to both of us, that we’re the same in this.”

Matt sincerely doubts that.

“How?” he asks.

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions, which you  _will_  answer honestly. If your answers are any different than I expect,” promises Matthew, and like the first night there’s a scrape of fabric as he crosses his heart, “I’ll drop this. I’ll even smooth things over with Foggy for you. Deal?”

It’s apparently as good an offer as Matt’s going to get. And the idea of not having to fumble his way through fixing things with Foggy, again, is an unparalleled relief.

“Deal.”

“Remember, don’t think. Just answer. Ready?”

Matt nods.

“Yeah, I’m. I’m ready.”

“If you got your sight back — just temporarily, only for half an hour or so — what would you want to see most?”

“Foggy. But that doesn’t mean—”

“And who is it easiest to center yourself with?” Matthew interrupts.

“ _Foggy_ ,” repeats Matt, letting out a frustrated huff. “But that  _doesn’t mean_ —”

“Who is it you feel most comfortable taking off your glasses around?”

“Foggy. But—”

“You’re  _thinking_ , Matty,” scolds Matthew, knocking the heel of his palm into Matt’s forehead with a soft thunk.

“But this doesn’t prove anything! That’s. A best friend can feel this way too!”

Matthew sighs.

“I know they can. I do. And we do love them as our best friends, that’s the basis for everything. The bedrock. But there’s one more question, Matty. The most important question. I need you to tell me what the real problem with him potentially moving on is. Why does the thought of it bother you so much? What makes it so unpalatable?”

Matt swallows, fidgets anxiously with the cuff of his sleeve. There are a million and one answers he could give, and they’d all be true in their own way, but.

“He’s. He’s supposed to want  _me_.”

Matthew lets out a low exhale, one that rings with a particular kind of relief Matt knows from checking his grades after finals and finding them still good. It’s one that says, _thank goodness I was right_.

“And you don’t think that’s a little selfish of you?” asks Matthew gently. “When you allegedly don’t want him back?”

“I...”

“Well?” Matthew persists.

“I don’t, I, I’m not...”

“I’m asking you a question, Matt.”

“But, I.”

“Matt. You have to answer. You promised.”

“But it’s not—”

“You _need_ to _answer me_!”

The shout is a jolt to the system; it realigns Matt, knocks the devil back into his blood.

“You think I— you think I don’t want to give him what you can?” he demands, uselessly angry, clenching and unclenching his fists. “But I can’t!”

Matthew makes a skeptical noise.

“And why can’t you?”

“Because I’m  _straight_!”

It’s not that hard to understand, is it? Matthew can say whatever he wants, but that doesn’t change the facts no matter how much either of them want it to. Matt wants to be gay, or bi, or— or whatever, but he’s not! He’s just not. That’s how it works, you either are or you aren’t, and you just know. He’s never experimented or realized he was different than the societal norm. He’s never Known, the way Foggy explained once that he did — fifteen years old and listening to Green Day and suddenly just _getting it_ , even if he spent the next two years fighting the realization. There’s never been a moment, like that, for Matt. He never even thought about sexuality as a concept until he met Foggy. So Matt’s straight, and he’s not allowed to kiss Foggy — it would only hurt Foggy worse in the long run. Matt just can’t do the things Matthew can, and twisting everything around in confusing logical circles won’t fix it.

“Ok, fine, whatever, you’re straight,” Matthew concedes, at last. “But if you weren’t, would you want to kiss him? Is that the only thing keeping you from it?”

There’s something wrong about those words, some trap, but Matt can’t for the life of him figure out what it is. And he... He promised honesty.

“Of course it is.”

“Then you’d kiss him too, if you could? Not to get one up on me, or to keep Foggy around, but just because you wanted to. Just because you would enjoy doing it. Because it would feel good.”

It’s just the same question over again, worded slightly differently. Matt grits his teeth.

“Yes!” he shouts, throwing out an arm in a sharp gesture to keep himself from throwing a punch instead. “I would! Isn’t that what I just said? But I can’t!”

The amused little sigh he receives at that is enough to make his blood boil.

“Matt.”

“What!”

“ _Think_ , you space cadet,” Matthew tells him. “Think about what you just said to me. You want to kiss another man, not for his sake but just because the act of kissing him in and of itself appeals to you. There is absolutely _nothing_ straight about that.”

“But that’s. I’m not...?”

He feels dizzy, like he’s been turned on his head. Like the whole world’s axis has shifted under him. When he sways on his feet, Matthew is there to catch him, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other steadying him by the shoulder.

“You’re envious of me,” says Matthew, quietly and gently. “You’re possessive of him. You’re possessive specifically of his romantic and sexual attraction to you, not just the platonic friendship. You need his friendship, and I get that, but you want something in addition to it. You’re just not letting yourself have it. You’ve convinced yourself that you aren’t feeling what you’re feeling.” Matthew presses their foreheads together, his hand still cradling the back of Matt’s skull. “But I know you, Matt Murdock.”

The sensation is grounding, helps Matt settle back into his bones again. Everything feels... Changed. But it isn’t, not really, because maybe Matthew’s right, and if he is then Matt has been feeling this way for a while. They breathe together, slow, and Matthew only pulls back when their hearts are pounding the same steady beat.

“I don’t,” Matt stammers, “I don’t  _feel_  bisexual, though. What if...?”

“Matt,” Matthew says, and shakes him lightly by the shoulder. “You can have this. You’re allowed to have this. It doesn’t matter what you or anyone else assumed about your orientation. The labels don’t matter. If they don’t help you, just forget about them. If you want to be with Foggy, that’s all that you really need to know.”

Is it though? Matt... He’s always loved Foggy, and maybe he’s _in_ love with him too, but... He’s still afraid. And there are still reasons that, that chasing after him or starting a relationship with him might not be the best idea.

“What about— All those women? Milla and Kirsten and...” Matt’s throat tightens over Karen and Elektra’s names, and he swallows hard. “What about them? They might be in this universe. Would you skip over all of them for Franklin?”

Matthew sighs, but he takes the time to formulate his answer, and that more than anything convinces Matt to believe in it.

“Don’t get me wrong, I loved my partners, all of them — still love them. For myself, I wouldn’t do things any differently except to spare them pain, to protect them better,” explains Matthew with a wistful tone that nearly breaks Matt’s heart. “But for you, as you are now...? Don’t waste another minute, Matt. It’s not about loving someone more, because you can’t weigh your love for one person against another, not if you really love them. But Foggy is a constant, and passing him up when he’s here right now, when he’s in love with you, for some uncertain future possibility? That’s a mistake. What you want is in your grasp already.”

“I’m. I’m scared,” admits Matt, and it’s only because of who Matthew is that he can admit that much out loud.

Because Matthew gets it. He knows, it’s not... Matt’s not built for this, and...

“It’s scary,” Matthew agrees, “being happy; but it’s worth it. I promise you. You just need to be brave.”

“You’re the one who won’t even tell Franklin you’re in love with him,” Matt accuses, because how can he bare his soul to Foggy if even Matthew’s not willing to risk it? “He doesn’t. Doesn’t know, not the way he’s talked about your relationships.”

“You’re right. But... I will. If you’ll explain things to your Foggy, I’ll tell mine. Deal?”

And it sounds equal, when he puts it that way. But... But...

“I hurt him,” Matt says quietly. “I. I broke his heart.”

“You can fix it, too. I told you, didn’t I? He’s not going to leave you. But first, you have to apologize.”

Matt’s stomach growls sharply, breaking the mood apart like crumbling bread. Matthew smothers a laugh.

“We should probably get some food in you before that, though.”

* * *

They end up at an Italian restaurant that does the best homemade pasta in the borough, in Matt’s opinion. Matthew seems to agree by the not very subtle little huffs and sniffs he takes as they sink into their seats. Foggy and Matt had helped the place out once when a chain restaurant was trying to buy up the space and using every dirty trick in the book to get them put out of business.

Matt orders the mushroom ravioli and Matthew orders spaghetti and despite Matthew’s picky, germaphobe ways, they steal bites off each other’s plates like kids. Between mouthfuls, they discuss the specific quirks of their own Foggies. Matt tells Mathew about Foggy’s long, long hair in college, how soft it was and how Foggy had let Matt put clumsy little braids in it once when they were feeling sleepy and drunk. Matthew tells Matt fondly about how irritated he’d been when he first met his roommate. About Franklin’s brilliant mind and his soothing voice, and how between that and the horrid snoring and the endless stench of cheese puffs, he’d spent six months trying to fight off the most confusing, conflicted wet dreams of his life.

“I thought I was saving him from York,” he concludes the story, explaining his own side of the tale about Franklin’s near-expulsion. “But in the end, when I let my arrogance take me too far with too little proof, he was the one who saved me. Who saved both of us. I think that must have been the moment I realized I was already in love with him.”

It might not be flowers and serenading and… All that, but. To Matt, it’s one of the most romantic things he’s ever heard. He’s been saved by his own Foggy before, and even if the circumstances are different it still comes down to the same thing. Foggy using his brilliant mind and his good heart not just in service of the world at large, but in service of Matt. Because he cares about him. Because they _are_ best friends, and they’re more important to one another than any danger.

He gets probably a little too choked up about it, and Matthew kindly steers them towards lighter topics. Both Foggies are fond of singing, it turns out, but only Matt’s is horribly tone-deaf. Franklin, apparently, has a decent singing voice. The ridiculous ties are a constant, although their forms differ. Matthew sounds pleased and a little excited at the thought that Franklin might invest in some of the same embroidered ties Foggy has. Matt himself is a little curious how a bow tie would suit Foggy. Matt’s fingers would have to be much closer to Foggy’s pulse point to touch it – and for the first time, there’s no residual guilt about a thought like that, about how it might lead Foggy on. Because— Matt _wants_ Foggy, and he’s _allowed_ to want Foggy, and there are so many little things he’s barely even realized he was holding back that all come spilling out to Mathew’s understanding ear.

They head out when they’ve finished eating and paid, and Matt takes a deep breath of the city. He feels— a little bit better, more sure on his feet, now that he’s fed. He can almost imagine the joke Foggy would make about him being ‘hangry’.

“Ready to go see him?” Matthew asks.

And maybe, after all of that, Matt should be. But. Well. It’s just…

“There’s. There’s one more place I want to go first.”

“Lead the way.”

* * *

Stepping into Clinton Church still hurts. There’s a part of Matt that keeps waiting to hear Father Lantom’s heartbeat, to smell him – cotton and coffee and old books. But he steels himself against that, because there’s someone else he needs to talk to.

“Can I help you?” one of the nuns asks quietly, as Matt and Matthew make their way down the aisle of the nearly-empty sanctuary.

She’s one of the younger ones, and although he recognizes her voice from his time healing after Midland Circle, Matt can’t remember her name. He offers her as kind a smile as he can muster.

“Could you take us to Sister Maggie, please?”

“Yes, of course. This way please,” she answers. “We’ll take a right in ten steps, and another left fifteen after that.”

Her steps are smaller than theirs, so the numbers aren’t quite right, but there’s not any trouble as they make their way out of the sanctuary and wind from one hall to the next. At last, the young nun knocks on a door.

“Sister Maggie? Mr. Murdock and a friend are here to see you,” she calls.

Matt hears his mother’s pulse jump, even through the wood, though it settles quickly. The door clicks open.

“Thank you, Sister Bridget.”

Maggie’s voice is still just as rough as Matt remembers, but it’s not cold or unkind. She doesn’t make any mention of Matthew even after he and Matt are ushered inside what seems to be a small office, and the door is closed.

“I… Didn’t expect you to call on me so soon,” she says, settling into a chair with a creak. “There’s a couch along the wall to your left.”

“Thank you,” Matt and Matthew chorus as they take a seat, which is— just bizarre.

“And this is…?”

“Matthew Murdock,” says Matthew, a little amused.

Maggie’s pulse does a little stutter again, and it lasts longer. Her chair creaks as she leans forward, presumably for a better look. Matt wonders if she’s squinting.

“Matthew?”

“It’s been... An interesting couple of days,” Matt explains sheepishly. “He’s. He’s me, from.” He clears his throat. “From a different universe. But that’s not— I came here to talk about something else.”

“I suppose this isn’t much of a stretch after the aliens,” mutters Maggie, and her voice gets fractionally farther away so she must lean back again. “Ok. So there’s two of you, but that’s not the issue? What is it you wanted to talk about?”

It’s… Something normal people do, Matt knows. Talk to their parents about their feelings, about… About their loves. He’s not sure his relationship with Maggie has reached that point yet, but he needs reassurance, needs _her_ reassurance specifically. He… Well… He might be a grown man, but he needs his mom for this. They haven’t known each other long, but she’s good at telling him what he needs to hear, even when he doesn’t want to hear it.

“There’s someone I want to, to be with. Romantically. That I care about, deeply, but it’s… Difficult. I don’t know if I can make myself ask, even though I want to, and… I don’t know if I deserve their forgiveness.”

“Karen?” Maggie asks.

Matt shakes his head.

“Foggy.”

There’s a long, thoughtful silence, and Matt wishes desperately that there was someone around who could describe her expression to him because her heart is steady and it gives nothing away. All he knows is that it isn’t confusion – she’d met both of them, that night, the night they had to save Karen from Poindexter. But beyond that, he has no clue what she thinks about Matt being attracted to a man, or about Foggy in particular, or anything. He can feel sweat beading at the nape of his neck. The room seems to shrink, becomes small and stifling.

Matthew squeezes Matt’s shoulder, a silent show of solidarity, and Matt only then realizes he’s been holding his breath.

“And this is what will make you happy?” Maggie asks at last — frankly, no-nonsense as always. “Being with Foggy?”

It isn’t a question born of skepticism, just one that demands an honest answer. One that demands a level of introspection for his feelings about Foggy that Matt’s only started exploring in the last couple of hours. He takes a deep breath, thinks about what he wants. Lets himself imagine everything he’s shied away from because he thought he couldn’t have it.

Waking up to that most comforting heartbeat — not blocks away or rooms away or even a bed away, but right there and thrumming through him, nestled right up against his back. Foggy’s laugh, low and intimate. A brush of lips on his own. The smell of warm-home-safe-Foggy permeating not just their offices but Matt’s apartment.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, it’ll make me happy.”

She reaches across the small space between them. Grabs his fingers, squeezes gently, and leans in close.

“Then you do what you have to, to earn the forgiveness you need. If this makes you happy, take it with both hands, and don’t let go. Not for anything.”

* * *

The streetlights are just starting to buzz as Matt and Matthew approach Foggy’s apartment.

“Almost there,” Matthew says, taking a deep breath and blowing it out heavily. “Ready?”

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” retorts Matt.

“Well, not all of us are going to get what we want today. But… I suppose this is just one more step towards honesty. And I… I’ll be happy, if things work out for you. You deserve to get what you want sometimes, Matt.”

They climb the stairs together, both slowed a little by trepidation. Franklin and Foggy are both inside the apartment, talking quietly. Foggy doesn’t… He doesn’t sound angry, at least. Maybe a little sad. But there’s some cheer in his voice too, which Matt hopes is a sign that his verbal barbs haven’t dug into Foggy’s heart too deeply to be removed.

“—time I tried to MacGyver a toaster oven and two mini cupcake tins into a waffle iron,” Foggy is saying.

Matt remembers that. Foggy burnt what little he managed to fit between the tins, the rest bubbled out, and the spatters of pancake batter never did get fully scrubbed off of the inside of the toaster oven. Franklin laughs.

“That does make me feel a little better,” he tells Foggy. “But as stupid as that sounds, I still don’t think it tops taking twenty years to realize you’re in love with your best friend.”

Matthew’s heart jumps out of time with Matt’s.

“Well,” he says to Matt lightly, though there’s a strangled undertone to his voice that even he can’t hide, “maybe we’ll all get what we want today after all.”

And then he knocks.


	6. Putting All the Pieces Back Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get sorted. People cry. Boys get kissed. Everybody lives happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, guys, it's finally done!! It's been kind of a wild, high-speed ride, huh. Thank you for all your lovely comments, and I hope you enjoy the happy ending!

It’s not exactly a shock to see the Matts at the door when Franklin opens it. Who else would be coming to visit so late in the evening? And thankfully Foggy at least feels settled enough and sober enough after half a day free of Murdocks to deal with their stupid handsome faces. Franklin, on the other hand, goes a little green. Foggy doesn’t blame him one bit — they both know how good Matt and Matthew’s hearing is. Which means that the whole ‘in love with my best friend’ thing? Yeah. Not a secret to anyone anymore. Still, Franklin manages to pull himself together pretty admirably and steps out of the doorway to let the Matts enter.

“You know, thoughtful guests call ahead,” he comments, voice even. “Especially when they have inexplicably functioning cell phones, _Matthew_.”

“Didn’t want to risk anyone doing a runner,” retorts Matthew.

He’s got a firm grip on Matt’s shoulder like a stern parent forcing their kid to come apologize for something. Matt, however, doesn’t fit the picture of the irritated kid — he looks guilty, and sad, and afraid. More like a dog that’s chewed up your shoes and knows it’s in trouble, honestly. It would be a lot easier to hold grudges if Matt wasn’t so gosh darn adorable, Foggy thinks to himself at the sight.

Not that this is a grudge Foggy wants to hold. Not that he ever wants to hold a grudge against Matt.

“Hi, Foggy,” Matt says quietly.

“Hey. Something you wanted to say?”

He tries to modulate his tone so it doesn’t come out pushy, but he’d really like to get out of this awkward bit and into whatever apologies they need to give one another. Foggy’s life is already awkward enough without adding more discomfort to it in the form of banal niceties they’ve long since lost the use for. Matt shrugs out of Matthew’s hold and nods.

“I… I came to apologize.”

He swallows, fidgeting, but doesn’t say any more. And Matt’s, well, notoriously bad with he whole expressing his feelings thing, so normally Foggy would take those words for what they are. Not just a pronouncement of the intention to apologize, but the actual apology itself – supplemented with sad, guilty faces and cringing posture. But as much as he wants to smooth this over, that’s not enough this time. If Matt’s sorry, Foggy wants to hear from his own mouth what for instead of assuming favorably that it’s what Foggy would like him to be sorry for. Sometimes their lack of communication is because it’s unnecessary, because they know each other so well, but this isn’t one of those times. Foggy needs the words.

“I’m listening,” he replies carefully, hoping to tread the thin line between being a massive pushover and sounding accusatory.

Matt doesn’t clam up, at least, although it takes several minutes and Matthew’s hand on his back before he’s able to get anything coherent out.

“You’re… Foggy, you’re my best friend,” he begins, which is honestly a good start because it melts Foggy’s heart a good sixty percent of the way in one fell swoop. “I don’t want us to fight. Who you choose to, um, to…”

Matt’s throat bobs. Foggy’s got enough pity in him to put the poor guy out of his misery.

“To make out with?” he offers, and Matt nods.

“It’s not my say. You’re your own person, Foggy, I know you are. Even if your choices make me unhappy, accusing you about them isn’t right. I wouldn’t want someone to do that to me. And about what I… What I said to you, about… I, I’m grateful, I always have been, that you... That you thought I was worthy of your affections. I never should have used that against you. I’m sorry, Foggy.”

The words are honest. Foggy knows that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And even if the things said this morning still ache, these words flow over them like cold water, like a balm. Matt thinks their friendship is worth fixing, enough that he’s fought past his aversion to emotional vulnerability and expressing himself to give Foggy an apology that acknowledges their issues instead of glossing over them. He deserves the same in return.

“Thank you,” Foggy says. “And I’m sorry too, for what I said about you hurting people. I know that’s not fair, and it was a cheap shot. You’re a good man, and you do what you do because you can’t bear to stand by and listen to innocent people suffer. I know that, I do. And I admire it. My feelings were hurt, but… What I said was still out of line.”

Matt nods, offers a small, pale smile that makes Foggy’s heart squeeze with affection.

“It’s. I know that—” Matt bites his lip, gives a little shake of the head like he does sometimes when he’s changing his mind. “Thank you. For, for apologizing.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Foggy points out. “Even when you’re being a dick, that doesn’t make it ok for me to lash out. I should know shit like that by now, I just… It’s hard, sometimes. I got defensive.”

Matt nods, wringing his hands.

“So did I. I was so afraid, Foggy,” he says, like it takes all his strength to admit — and maybe it does, because Foggy’s never known Matt to be afraid of anything. “I thought... I thought you were serious about Matthew, that you might even leave with him, and I... I’d lose you for good.”

_Of course_. Foggy shakes his head and sighs, but can’t keep the sad smile from his face. Of course Matt, the king of abandonment issues, would think something like that.

“You big dope, you’re my best friend. No matter what, I can’t... I could never leave you, not really, not forever. And that’s got nothing to do with whatever stupid—” Foggy swallows. “Whatever else I feel. I care about you as my friend, and if you’re willing to overlook some. Some slips again, heartbeat junk... I don’t want you to worry about that or feel like you have to... I know the score, man. I don’t want you to feel like it’s your problem to deal with. I won’t bother you with it, I swear.”

Matt’s face crumples at those words, and Foggy can’t decide if it’s more likely from guilt or from sorrow on Foggy’s behalf. He doesn’t want Matt feeling either one. It’s not Matt’s fault he’s irresistible. It’s not his fault Foggy’s a lovesick moron. He never asked for any of it.

“Foggy, I don’t... I’m. I’m sorry, I...”

Matt’s fingers twist helplessly in the fabric of his slacks, picking at the outer seam and wrinkling the fabric.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Matt. I mean I... I do wish you would have told me outright, instead of letting me twist like that for so long. Still, I know you were trying to be kind and, you know, spare my feelings.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “It’s in the past. C’mere, buddy, let’s hug it out. You look like you need one.”

Matt lurches forward into Foggy’s arms. And this? This is familiar. And that’s good. It makes it easy for Foggy to push all the other shit away and just hug the stuffing out of his best friend. Matt clings back, burying his face against the side of Foggy’s neck.

“I still, I still have to tell you...” he stammers, words vibrating against Foggy’s skin along with the hot rush of his breath. “Foggy, I was wrong. I didn’t know, but I... I _do_ have feelings for you. Romantic feelings, and—”

“Stop,” Foggy demands, his heart slamming against his ribs with a sudden, painful jolt.

“Foggy—”

Horror stinging sharply in his chest, Foggy pushes away from the hug like it burns him. Matt doesn’t reach out, try to make him stay. There’s so much— hurt and humiliation and anger rushing through him that all Foggy can do is pace, clutching at his own hair to focus on the pinpricks of pain it causes.

“Matt. _Stop_ ,” he orders as evenly as he can.

“But... Foggy, I—“

“ _No_ ,” snaps Foggy. “No, you don’t get to— And  _you_!” He rounds on Matthew, jabbing an accusing finger at him. “I know you had a hand in this! You should know better than to encourage it! I told you he didn’t, that he doesn’t—”

Matthew doesn’t look the least bit ashamed.

“But he does.”

“No! He doesn’t! He’s just— _guilting_ himself into it because he doesn’t want to lose to you, and I’m not going to be part of it!”

“Foggy.”

But this time it isn’t Matthew or Matt speaking. It’s Franklin. Foggy turns to gape at him, to demand answers, but he’s momentarily struck dumb by the expression of soft encouragement on his face.

“But,” he says when he can find his words again. “But they’re...”

“You and I,” Franklin tells him, stepping forward to brush Foggy’s mussed hair out of his eyes, “we don’t always listen when we’re upset, or when we think we already know the answer. Matt’s trying very hard to tell you something, and I think you should listen.”

It’s clearly not a suggestion, for all that it’s couched in affable, counseling terms. Franklin steers Foggy by the shoulder until he’s facing Matt again, then steps back to continue observing.

_Dick_ , Foggy thinks sharply, and then feels like an asshole.

“Fine. Just... Explain, then,” he tells Matt, defeated.

“I didn’t know,” Matt says, his shoulders bunched high near his ears. “It just never seemed… People were supposed to just _know_. You did. Or you, you questioned things, wondered about yourself, figured it out. But I’d never spent time thinking about my sexuality. I didn’t go through the same sort of process, so I thought… You know, even if I wondered what it would be like to kiss you or… That was just me being a clueless, curious straight guy, right? Just a straight guy _intrigued_ by his bisexual friend.” He laughs bitterly. “The thing is I got so caught up in— words and labels and how I thought people were supposed to figure out their sexuality that I ignored my own feelings. I thought... I thought I couldn’t be anything _but_ straight, so I let all the evidence that I wasn’t fall by the wayside. I let myself think I couldn’t want you.”

“Even if you’re not straight,” Foggy argues, rubbing his arms to stave off the chill that’s settled over him, “it doesn’t mean you’re in love with me. That’s not... It’s ok if you’re not, do you know how much it would suck if you— I don’t know, changed your mind, or realized that I wasn’t what...”

He swallows hard, ducks his chin and points his eyes down at the floor.

“You  _are_  what I want,” says Matt with too much certainty for someone who rejected Foggy only hours ago.

From his peripherals, Foggy sees Matt pull off his glasses and set them on the coffee table. But Foggy knows this trick, and he can’t... He just can’t bring himself to meet Matt’s eyes. So he turns his own gaze on the lenses of the glasses, the red glint of them in the low yellow streetlamp light coming through the window.

“Foggy,” Matt says patiently, like it’s just the two of them there and everything will be ok. “Will you just— will you just look at me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Foggy. Please.”

And, well, Foggy’s weak. He looks, heart jumping in his chest for a beat too long to be anything but attraction. Matt’s expression is determined, the way it is when he’s playing over his closing argument in his head, but there’s something softer, a little pleased about it — because he got his way, probably. _Smug asshole_. Even that thought sends warmth bleeding through Foggy. He’s really got it bad.

“I was— an idiot,” Matt tells him. “And I hurt you. And I’m sorry for that, for not... For not figuring it out sooner. I thought... I always thought I couldn’t have this. But I was wrong, and I can, and I  _want_  to. You know me, Foggy. Your friendship is so important to me, I’d never risk potentially ruining it unless I was sure. And I am now. I’m sure.”

Foggy’s breath hitches, and he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The prelude to a good long ugly cry.

“Matt,” He croaks out, trying to head it off.

It doesn’t work.

“You’re so strong,” Matt tells him, reaching out to cradle the curve of Foggy’s tear-dampened jaw in his hands. “And so— fragile, at the same time. I feel like I never get it right, that I don’t... That I don’t deserve anything from you. I’ve never told you how beautiful you are to me, or why. It’s hard to talk about stuff like that, and I thought it would only hurt you because I couldn’t love you back. But I can. And you are, you’re beautiful. The way you move, the way you breathe. The feel of your hair under my fingers. Your heartbeat is my favorite sound in the whole world. And I know I, maybe I broke this, too much to be fixed. That maybe you’ll never be able to believe me after, after the horrible things I said. I was jealous and hurt and I couldn’t— I didn’t want you to leave me again.”

And now Matt’s crying too, his breath shuddering as tears roll down his cheeks. His face gets blotchy almost immediately, and his nose starts to run, and he’s still the most beautiful thing Foggy’s ever seen. Leave? Foggy’s way past that being a feasible option at this point. And even if it were, he wouldn’t choose it. Matt’s fragile and volatile and he’s got abandonment issues bigger than most mountains, but he’s also sweet and ridiculous and so desperately good it makes Foggy’s heart ache. It never could have been anyone else. And it never will be. That’s the truth — and it melts away the hurts like spring snow. There’ll be time to address everything else, all the old arguments, the fears, later. For the moment... What’s most important is that none of those things are enough to keep them apart.

“Oh, jeez, Matty,” Foggy laughs wetly, shifting closer to scrub Matt’s tears away with the cuff of his sleeve. “Oh god, we’re a mess.”

“I love you,” Matt promises, and it sounds unshakably true even when his lower lip is wobbling from emotion, from trying not to pull into a sob.

There’s really no other response Foggy can make besides,

“I love you too. Just... So much. You ridiculous duck.”

Matt dips his head a little, then. Presses a soft, sweet kiss to Foggy’s mouth, stroking a thumb over Foggy’s cheek and letting his hand slip a bit lower so his palm is pressed against the side of Foggy’s throat. It is, Foggy realizes with a startling thrill, the same posture Matt always took when kissing his girlfriends — gently but firmly holding them in place. Foggy has no idea if it’s so Matt can keep track of where the lips he’s kissing are or whether it’s more about the feel of the pulse fluttering beneath his palm — and frankly he doesn’t really care. He’s too busy kissing back, clutching the front of Matt’s shirt and matching the crescendoing intensity of that perfect mouth.

Foggy would like to say they have a sense of decorum about the whole thing. He’d like to, but he can’t. It takes a wolf whistle from Matthew to get them to stop making out like teenagers. Matt’s blushing pink to his ears, and Foggy’s sure he’s not much better.

“Well. Now that they’re all settled,” Matthew croons, taking Franklin into his arms. “Fogs, there’s something I have to say to you.”

“No,” replies Franklin patiently.

“I didn’t even ask you yet, that’s not fair.”

A sigh that breaks Foggy’s heart a little bit falls from Franklin’s mouth. Suddenly, Matt’s fingers are laced through his own, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. _It’ll be ok_ , he seems to be saying. _They’ll work it out. Just wait._

“Matt. You’re still in love with Kirsten,” Franklin reminds Matthew, calmly extricating himself from the other man’s arms. “And someday she’s going to figure out she’s in love with you too, memory wipe or not. That’s ok, I’m fine with that! I just want you to be happy. You’ll always be my best friend. Only I... I don’t think I could handle being a placeholder, and I don’t think I could handle being the thing keeping you and Kirsten apart, not when I’ve seen myself how good she is for you. So I’d say we’re kind of at an impasse.”

“I do still love Kirsten,” Matthew says honestly, shrugging a little and turning his face away like he’s avoiding Franklin’s eyes. “I do. Like I still love Milla and Karen. And maybe Kirsten _will_ come back, maybe she _will_ figure me out again. But maybe she won’t. And either way, Foggy... Wanting you has been my baseline for so long that it’s a part of me now. I’ll... When we get home, we’ll have time for everything.  _If_  Kirsten comes back someday, the three of us can work it out together, if that’s what you want. It was... It was good, when things were the three of us. I think we could really have something amazing. I’d like that. But that means we’d all have to agree to it, we’d all have to talk it out, make sure it was equal and we wanted each other right. And I’m getting too old to deny myself something that makes me as happy as you do; I don’t want to put you aside worrying what Kirsten would think about it. No matter what anyone else says or does, no matter how I feel about anyone else, you have to know I mean it when I say I’m in love with you and I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. I’ve given up a lot of things over the years, we both have — because we were afraid, because we thought we had to, because we didn’t have a choice — and I don’t want this to be one of them. If you really want me too...”

They all know the words are leading and more than a little insecure, but Franklin doesn’t even pause.

“I do. Maybe it took a little help for me to catch on—” he glances at Foggy and smiles— “but I have for a long time.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. I love you enough to suffer through your horrifying appetite for food combinations that would kill a mortal man. This is small potatoes in comparison.”

Franklin laughs, long and loud.

“God, you are awful,” he says at last, his voice still shaky with mirth. “Maybe I should trade you for fluffy brunet Matt, _he_ regaled _his_ Foggy with poetry about how perfect he is instead of insulting his taste buds.”

“Too late, he’s mine,” Foggy says very insistently, and wraps his arms around his own Matt in a quick hug just for good measure.

Matthew beams.

“Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

“It’s a hardship,” Franklin agrees. “But I’ll suffer through it.”

That’s apparently enough permission for Matthew to sweep Franklin into his arms again. He probably thinks he’s very dashing, Foggy considers, amused — the way he tilts Franklin’s chin up and leans in close is straight out of a theatre production of some sort. God only knows where he learned moves like that without the eyesight to see them for reference.

“I’ve been told I’m pretty good at this part,” Matthew murmurs, and Foggy thinks it probably sounds sweeter and less arrogant than he intends.

“Better put your money where your mouth is, Murdock,” comes Franklin’s reply.

He does, if Foggy’s any judge, because it definitely looks like a very, very good kiss. And Franklin gives as good as he gets, too, he’s no swoony Hollywood starlet in Matthew’s arms. Foggy gives them both a good couple of minutes just for politeness’ sake before he takes a page out of Matthew’s book and blows out a loud wolf whistle to break them apart.

In the aftermath, Franklin adjusts his crooked tie, tries to flatten his mussed hair.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Now that we’ve finally got all that embarrassing personal drama sorted. What should—”

He’s interrupted by a tinny, high-pitched noise that makes both Matts wince. A whirling orange portal opens up on the other side of the room, and Foggy wonders when his living room became a liminal space. He doesn’t have time for much more than that wry thought before a man is stepping through.

“At last, there you are,” says the man, who is wearing some seriously weird bling around his neck, along with a bright blue tunic and a bright red cape.

He also has boots and extremely manicured facial hair. Oh, and he’s floating about three inches off the ground.

“Stephen!” greets Franklin brightly. “Good to see you.”

“Yes, well. Mr. Rand called me up when he had issues retrieving you. It’s been something of an ordeal figuring out which dimension he landed you in.”

“Well you found us, so— full points.”

“He means  _thank you_ ,” Franklin says pointedly. “Don’t you, Matty?”

“Thank you, Stephen,” adds Matthew, somehow sounding both earnest and like he’s rolling his eyes.

As a point of politeness, Franklin then introduces Foggy and Matt to Dr. Stephen Strange. His name is fitting, but Foggy’s not sure he wants to know what Strange’s degree is in because there is no kind of doctor he would be comfortable seeing dressed like that.

“Interesting that of all the people you might have encountered in this dimension it was your alternate selves,” Strange muses, tilting his head a little and rubbing at his chin as he studies them all. “In any case, Mr. Rand was growing concerned — we can talk over this experience once we’re all safely home.”

_Please dear god let him not be a psychiatrist_ , Foggy thinks suddenly. Before he can get much father into that disturbing mental image, Franklin speaks.

“Of course. Let us just say our goodbyes and we’ll be on our way.”

Matthew and Franklin step away from Strange and the portal, back towards Matt and Foggy.

“Well,” Matthew says, holding out a hand. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

Foggy shakes it and grins.

“Same to you. And have fun with your no longer imaginary twin. Tell him hi for me.”

Matthew just laughs and moves to clap Matt on the shoulder.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d met him,” says Franklin before enveloping Foggy in a tight hug. “... Take care of Matt, would you? You know how he gets. You two need each other.”

“Yeah,” agrees Foggy. “Yeah, I know. Same to you.”

He hugs back and finds hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. When they step apart, Foggy dashes them away with the heel of his palm before the waterworks can really start again. He’s at least gotta try to keep it together for a few minutes. Until Matthew and Franklin are through the portal anyways.

“Next time,” Matthew is saying to Matt, “we’ll have to try a patrol together.”

“No offense but there is absolutely not going to be a next time,” refutes Franklin.

“Next time,” Matthew repeats gleefully, giving Matt’s hair a quick ruffle before he turns to face the portal.

Except, after a single step towards it, Matthew turns back. He has a suspiciously speculative smile on his face. And then, before anyone can react, he tugs Foggy forward by his tie and plants a starry kiss on him. It’s— overwhelming, relentless. Like being rushed by ocean waves, every time Foggy thinks surely the kiss is ending, Matthew just presses in again, deeper. He’s probably clinging to Matthew’s shoulders like some sort of romance novel heroine but he’s a little busy kissing back to care how he looks. By the time they break apart, Foggy’s head is spinning and he’s not even sure whether it’s from the kiss itself or the lack of oxygen. Without another word, Matthew darts through Strange’s portal — just one bright, giddy laugh and he’s gone.

“Um,” Foggy says. “Whoa.”

“That’ll be a tough act to follow. As always,” mutters Franklin, But Foggy can see that his mouth wants to twitch into a fond and exasperated smile.

“Were you planning on a goodbye kiss too?” Matt asks, tone colored bright from held-back laughter and a little shy with expectation.

“Well,” Franklin says with a shrug. “Yeah. It’s only fair.”

He rests one hand lightly on Matt’s shoulder and the other against his cheek, and leans in to press their mouths together. The kiss is languid. Slow, deep, searching — and infinitely tender. It’s almost shocking in its intimacy. Watching it makes Foggy’s throat go dry and heat curl in the pit of his stomach. When Franklin pulls away, he’s still resting a hand gently on Matt’s cheek.

Matt’s mouth is slack and he looks concussed — in the nice, kissed-stupid way and not the ‘whoops I got bashed in the head with a bat because I  _no longer wear a freaking helmet_ ’ way. Franklin whispers something in his ear that has him nodding, still dazed.

“Good boy,” says Franklin — with a low, confident tone that makes even Foggy squirm a little.

That done, Franklin straightens his suit jacket importantly and strides through the swirling portal. Strange follows after, looking bemused by the whole affair. Foggy doesn’t blame him one bit. The portal closes behind them with a sizzling zap.

Foggy takes a deep breath, waiting a few seconds to make sure it’s gone for good, and then turns his attention to Matt. He’s pretty sure from the look of him that Matt’s brain just bluescreened, and his own might as well be spitting sparks because it’s having trouble stringing together a thought that isn’t about the teasing little flick of Matthew’s tongue in his mouth or the way Matt shivered when Franklin called him a good boy. If the two of them can kiss with the same skill as their doppelgangers in ten years’ time, Foggy is going to consider his life a rousing success because _holy shit_.

“Matt,” he says weakly.

Matt shudders again, but seems to finally be coming back to himself.

“Bed,” he insists, fumbling for Foggy’s arm. “Now.”

And hey, it’s not candlelight and roses, but— Foggy’s not sure he has the patience for that right now either.

“Bed,” he agrees gamely, already loosening Matt’s tie as they stumble backwards through the doorway.

* * *

“What did he say to you anyway?” Foggy thinks to ask later, sleepy and sated and, to be blunt, thoroughly debauched. “Franklin, I mean.”

“Oh.”

Matt blushes. Considering what they’ve just finished doing, his shyness is both completely hilarious and unfairly sweet. _Only Matt Murdock_ , Foggy thinks fondly, _could touch your dick and then be coy_   _afterwards_.

“Oh...?”

“He, um. He asked me to— asked me to remember I can rely on you,” Matt explains, sitting up and fiddling with the sheets.

His face is pointed down at his knees, and all Foggy wants to do is wrap him up and cuddle him forever.

“He’s right, you know,” he offers. “You can rely on me. I want you to rely on me. I. I love you, Matt. I always want to help.”

“Yeah, I.” Matt keeps his head ducked, but his mouth curls up in a secret little smile. “I know, Fog. I love you too. And um.”

“Yeah...?”

“He also might have um.”

“Yes?”

“He said, ‘pull his hair a little, he’ll like that’,” Matt blurts.

There’s a long, long pause before Foggy finally works his mouth around the right syllables.

“Well. I mean. He was right, I guess.”

An embarrassed giggle spills past Matt’s tightly pressed lips, and the dam breaks. They both laugh until their sides ache. When they kiss, it’s light and quick — too giggly to have any of the intensity of earlier but somehow even better anyway. The brush of Matt’s mouth on his warms Foggy all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Matt eases them back down and lies almost on top of Foggy, presses them close everywhere he can, tangles their legs together. There’s not really even anything sexual about it, just a simple, unashamed desire for touch. It’s the happiest Foggy can ever remember being. And — he thinks with a flare of warmth — really, this is only the beginning.

* * *

“Oh my god,” Karen says the next day. “I wish there was some sort of— interdimensional Edible Arrangements or something. I thought getting you two to sort your shit out was literally impossible and they did it in under seventy-two hours. I could kiss them.”

“They  _are_  very good at kissing,” Foggy concedes, “I don’t blame you.”

Matt snorts inelegantly into his fist to smother his laughter. Karen’s jaw drops.

“Oh. My. God.” Before Foggy has a chance to react, she’s on him like a pouncing lioness, shaking him by the shoulders. “Tell me  _everything_.”


End file.
